How am I supposed to get rid of what’s holding me back if I’m clinging to it? I always saw it as a part of my identity, but now I see it for what it is. Something that holds me tightly in its grip, controlling me.
I thought I kept it because it aided me in my fight, but the truth is that keeping it only kept meinthe fight.
So it’s time to cut it out of my life.
Literally.
Buh-bye, long hair. Time for something new, something that doesn’t tie me to my past.
“Laine, I’ve never been more certain of anything.”
I’m doing what I need to do to move on. Tonight I plan to finally go through my mom’s desk.
But first, a trip to the salon. It’s not a fancy place, but I don’t need fancy. As long as the salon is capable of sectioning my hair into braids and chopping off ten inches, it will do.
Laine links her arm through mine, marching me into the place. “Let’s get you a haircut.”
The wait is less than ten minutes. I think of nothing else but the child who will receive my hair. She is nameless and faceless, but my imagination makes her into a person anyhow.
I grew out my hair in defiance, not knowing what it would mean to keep it so long all these years. Now it will go to someone who needs it, and the more I think about it, the more I want to grab the shears and chop it off myself.
When the woman with short and spiky plum-colored hair calls my name, I’m ready. Laine walks beside me to the chair. I’m vibrating with energy, but she looks nervous.
“Stop,” I instruct, looking at her in the mirror.
“I’m nervous,” she admits, twisting her lips.
“I’m not.”
Plum hair lady wraps a black cape around me, buttoning it at my neck. It’s a little tight, but I don’t tell her. I won’t be here long. She rests her hands with their long fake nails on my shoulders and looks at me in the mirror.
“What are we doing today?”
I put out my hand and Laine presses the little pouch holding clear hair elastics into my palm. “I’m cutting off ten inches for donation,” I tell Plum. She doesn’t even look surprised.
Using my phone, I show her the cutting instructions on the Crowns of Courage website.
“Got it,” she says when she’s finished reading. She takes the pouch from my hand and pulls out a handful of hair ties. She sections off my hair, securing each with an elastic, then braids it. When she’s done, she goes to the front desk and comes back with a ruler. After she’s measured and adjusted, she pulls out her shears.
“I can’t look,” Laine yelps, turning her face away from Plum and her deft hands.
Snip, snip.
There it goes. Plum holds up one section in the mirror. Laine peeks over.
Plum holds it out for me to take, and then she moves through the remaining sections. In less than a minute, half my hair is gone.
While Plum spends more time making it straight, I add the hair to the plastic baggie I’m supposed to send the hair in, as specified on the website.
Plum blow-dries my hair, and I smile at her when it’s over. “I love it,” I tell her.
“It’s great you’re donating. It’d be a shame to keep all that pretty hair to yourself.”
Laine and I check out up front. I tuck the bag into my purse with my wallet, in a state of disbelief but pride.
We walk out, and on our walk to her car, I catch sight of my reflection in a storefront window. I’m momentarily startled, but I relax almost instantly.
I feel lighter. Freer. I thought I’d ditched my shackles when I left Agua Mesa for Dallas, but it turns out I had them with me all along.
