Her Haircut

They say hair holds memories. That’s all that courses through my head as I stare at the pair of scissors that rest on my kitchen counter like a comforting taunt. I take them and silently walk into my bathroom, closing the door behind me. My reflection stares at me from above the sink—auburn and faded copper hair flowed and curled down to the middle of my hips. My hair was a mess of tight coils and tired waves as they shifted with each even breath I let out. My fingers tested their grip on the scissor’s handle. 

I remember the feeling of ribbons in my hair as a child, the way the texture of satin mixed with the softness of my young hair. It was full of excitement and hope as it bounced with me. As much as I have tried, I can’t find that little girl in me anymore. It’s okay, I’ve accepted it. Yet I can’t help but think, as one of my fingers starts to play with an orange coil, that I can’t quite move on. My mother called me “Luz” because she said I was such a bright baby. She loved my vibrant hair because it reminded her of hers when she was young and my father loved how long it grew. Whenever my mom would cut my hair, she would treasure it, while he wouldn’t talk to me for days after. Short hair wasn’t for girls, he would sneer. Plus the shorter the hair, the harder it is to grab and control when my mom was already too beat up to continue pushing. I don’t know why I kept on having long hair even as I entered adulthood. I never spoke to my father after he drained our savings or my mother after she wouldn’t stop defending him. Nobody forces me to have long hair anymore. It wasn’t like he was there to threaten me--he hasn’t done that in seven years. So why did I hold on? 

Forgiveness is a weird concept. I don’t necessarily like the idea of forgiving my parents for all the shit they put me through and all they took away. But a funny thing about forgiveness is that it’s for you, not them. Forgiveness is for you to move on, to be new. I don’t think I can forgive them right now, but maybe I’d like to try.

I’m happier than I have been for a while. I live with my boyfriend Camilo and we both carry each other's stories. He taught me what living is and how forgiveness can change everything. I love him. I don’t tell him often, but he knows. He knows by the way that I breathe his name and he feels it when I kiss his tanned, freckled shoulder. I feel it too when he kisses my own freckled cheek or when he whispers it into my skin. I wonder if he’ll like me with short hair.

The first sharp snip echoes in the silent chamber of the bathroom as a strand of my heavy hair falls around my finger. I start to reach higher, cutting a strand so that it ends just under my chin. Then another, midway up my neck. And then I can’t stop. With each strand that fell, I felt more air fill my lungs. I would not drown. I would not do it. I laughed, the noise giddy and relieved as my wide eyes slowly let out an even stream of tears. I cut faster. It was uneven and a hairdresser’s nightmare, but it was mine. And I was free. 

My hand slammed down on to the bathroom sink’s edge with finality. My chest heaved as I stared at myself in the mirror. It was me. I was me. I heard the front door open in the distance as I shook out my loose strands, my coils shifting up with its new shape. 

“Lu?” Camilo called from our living room. 

“In here!” I called, the scissors dropping from my shaking hand. I turned towards the closed door and went to open it. My hand hovered before finally closing down on the handle. 

“You will never believe what I just trie--” Camilo stopped putting away the fresh groceries as his eyes met mine. His hooded mahogany eyes widened as he took me in. 

“What did you try?” I asked casually, walking up to him and leaning against the kitchen counter. 

“Oh my god,” He whispered as he dropped everything and dashed up to me. His hands went immediately to my hair, his calloused fingers running through the short strands. “You’re so beautiful.”

I snorted. “Uh, huh. Yeah, I’m aware I look like a mess, Cam.”

“No,” He said, laughing to himself like he was in disbelief. “You look like a bouquet of marigolds, Luz.” 

“Ay, para.” I said, trying to swat away his hands.

“No, I mean it.” His hands moved from my scalp to my cheeks, cradling my face so that he could look into my eyes. “You look so…”

“Insane?”

“Happy.” His hooked nose crinkled as he gently nudged it against mine. “It suits you.”

My eyes welled as I gave him a shaky smile. “I really like it.” I said, my voice small. 

He laughed gently. “Me too, baby. Me too.” 

I crushed my face into his chest as I embraced him with all the energy I had left in my body. I was laughing but it was sticky with tears and sobs as I finally let go. He held me back with iron gripped hands, sticking his face into my hair and letting the loose strands tickle his nose like it didn’t bother him. 

“So, what did you try?” I eventually asked, wiping my tears and snot against the front of his shirt as my fingers fidgeted with the back’s hem. 

He kissed the top of my head before saying: “Almond milk.” 

I let out such a sharp laugh that made more mucus come out. “Oh, gross.” I cackled.

Camilo reached back to grab some paper towels and began to wipe my face, then his shirt. “Yeah, I know, right? Almond milk is so gross. I wonder who was mad enough to invent that.”

I shook my head helplessly. “I’m totally gonna secretly order you almond milk lattes.”

He groaned with a disgusted twist to his lips. “You know, now that you mention it, I actually don’t like your hair.”

I scoffed, my cheeks stretching into an uncontrollable grin. I shoved his face away. “No take backs.”

“Damn.” He said with his own matching dimpled grin. He leaned over and kissed me, his hand coming up to rest against my jaw. “So, movie night?” He whispered against my lips.

I hummed. “We’re watching ‘Twilight.’”

He threw his head back with another groan before looking down at me with a small shake to his head. “You are going to be the death of me.”

I simply leaned up to steal another kiss before turning to his discarded groceries to help put them away. 

I didn’t grow up knowing what unconditional love meant. But I think now I finally know.