Chapter 1

My mom always said it.

The best hairstyle for a girl is a buzz cut.

It's clean, simple, easy to manage.

And it wouldn't go attracting the wrong kind of attention from boys.

For as long as I can remember.

I’ve had a shiny, bald head.

And the strange looks from everyone else.

The summer after my senior year of high school.

I had to threaten to kill myself.

To finally earn the right to grow out my hair.

But the night before I was supposed to leave for college.

My mom took the clippers to my head again while I slept.

...

A bloodcurdling scream echoed from the bathroom that morning.

I clawed at my scalp, now a fuzzy, grayish-green stubble once again.

Screaming like a lunatic.

My mom heard the noise and came out of the kitchen, spatula in hand.

She kicked me in the small of my back.

"What's all the screaming about? You trying to wake up the whole damn neighborhood?"

The kick sent me stumbling forward, my stomach slamming into the edge of the sink.

I barely felt the pain, whipping my head around to shout nonsensically at her.

"Don't I deserve to have hair?! Is it a crime for me to have hair? Do I have to die right in front of you to make you happy?"

My mom just snorted at me.

"Then go ahead, die. I've never seen a kid threaten their own mother with suicide so much."

Her casual, indifferent tone.

Made my anger feel like punching a pillow.

I thought back to that last fight.

The razor blade had already broken the skin on my wrist.

Just a fraction of an inch from the artery.

Only then did my mom reluctantly nod, agreeing that my hair was my own to manage from now on.

I was so happy, feeling like I'd finally won a battle for myself on the day I officially became an adult.

All summer long.

I watched the stubble on my head grow out each day.

I endured the maddening itch as the new hairs first pushed through my scalp.

I dreamed about the college life that was about to begin.

I was fulfilled and happy.

I thought, my parents must love me after all.

Maybe at first, they just didn't realize how much my hair meant to me.

Faced with my emotional breakdown, they were willing to compromise for me.

Thinking about it now.

I realize my mom never cared if I lived or died.

She just wanted to give me a glimmer of hope, only to snuff it out with her own hands.

It was her way of reinforcing her authority over me, a brutal reminder that I would never escape her control.

The noise from our argument brought my dad out.

He saw my head in the mirror and froze for a second.

Then, he clicked his teeth and frowned at my mom, "Didn't we agree to let her grow her hair out? How could you just turn around and shave it again?"

"So what if I shaved it? I did it for her own good!"

My mom shot back, completely righteous.

"She's got freshman orientation as soon as she gets to college! It's hot and stuffy with a whole mess of hair on your head! And don't forget, she's never been clean! What happens when her hair gets all sweaty and stinky? Isn't that disgusting?"

My dad rubbed the sleep out of the corner of his eye and played the peacemaker, like he always did.

"Alright, alright, that's enough. Your mom was just trying to help."

"Just get packed. We have to hit the road soon, don't forget you have to check in at college today!"

"For my own good? What does that even mean?"

My dad's vague response felt like a bucket of ice water dumped over my head.

I couldn't stop myself from pointing at my mom's own head of long, luscious black hair, which she meticulously cared for.

"I am an eighteen-year-old adult! Don't I even have the right to my own hair? If a buzz cut is so great, why doesn't she shave her head?"

CRACK.

My mom dropped the spatula and slapped me hard across the face.