He leaves, slamming the door behind him, and the sound reverberates like thunder through my bones.
Alone now, I slump against the cool wood of the door, my body sagging under the weight of his disapproval. My breath comes in short, ragged gasps as if I’ve been running.
Compelled by the nagging itch, my fingers reflexively seek comfort. They find the hair at my neck, twisting and pulling at the roots.
Never where they could see.
They can’t find out.
The pain is sharp, piercing through the fog of my emotions and keeping me from crying—a real, tangible sensation that anchors me back to the present.
It’s a startling kind of release, one that frightens me with its intensity yet fascinates me with its effectiveness. As strands of long brown hair come loose in my hands, a twisted relief floods through me.
It’s control, I realize. Control in a life where I have so little.
Even though Iknew that particular memory would haunt me as soon as I put on the song, it still ruined my appetite, so I set my spoon down on the table, looking again through the large front window over Seattle.
Back in my teenage years, the habit of pulling my hair had escalated until I had bald spots hidden behind my ears and at the base of my skull. Fortunately, I have so much hair that no one ever noticed.
But the shame?
It was always there, gnawing at me.
Not good enough.
Initially, I thought I was controlling something, gaining some autonomy in my meticulously planned-out world. But that notion crumbled quickly.
It isn’t control. It’s alossof control, a compulsion that dominates me. It’s unconscious, and I only realize I’m doing it when the damage is already done. Others might bite their nailsor pick their skin when stressed. What I do is practically the same, but somehow, it feels worse.
During those times, stress from my parents’ expectations and the pressures of college often became overwhelming. So much so that I just couldn’t stop. I found myself tying my right hand—the one I use to hurt myself—to my desk or around my waist to prevent it from pulling my hair without my noticing.
It was a desperate measure for a desperate time.
Until I couldn’t stand it anymore and realizedI was smarter than that.
So, I developed a gesture detection technology for my smartwatch. It vibrates to alert me whenever it detects the specific motion my hand makes when I start to pull my hair. It’s the reason I wear my watch on my dominant hand.
This feedback is crucial for me. It’s enough to interrupt my behavior, making me aware of what I’m doing and allowing me the moment I need to choose a healthier coping mechanism, like taking a deep breath or listening to a piano piece.
And it works.
Mostly.
Now, living in Seattle, I’ve managed to keep the compulsion at bay. The urge only really returns when I have to talk to my parents. The mere sound of one of their voices is enough to pull me back to that vulnerable place.
Maybe I should apply a voice mod to their calls.
Wait,that’s not a bad idea.
“Note, look into voice mod for calls.”
I should have a bit of time to try this out. Mother still calls me every other week, but that’s far less stressful than having them around.
Cleaning up, I take in my perfectly automated home. It does everything but fill the void of loneliness.
“But that’s why you guys are here now, aren’t you?” I ask the tetras, finally preparing to move them from the bag into the big tank.
As the fish adapt to their new surroundings, I reach up and touch the side of my glasses—subtle, chocolate brown frames that match my long hair. With a light press of a barely noticeable button, my augmented reality system springs back to life. A holographic control center cascades before my eyes, overlaying my living room with floating icons and interactive data that meld seamlessly with its layout.
