When I was in 9th grade, I had really long hair. One day, my mom suddenly took me to a man’s barbershop. “Cut her hair short like a boy,” Mom said. I cried, but Mom kept asking the barber to cut it shorter. People around started staring at us. “Will that be all, ma’am?” the barber asked. “No”, my mother replied, rising from her chair. “Cut it even shorter.”

I felt like I was in a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from. My hair fell to the floor in thick clumps. The barber hesitated every time he took the scissors near my head, looking at me in the mirror with eyes that seemed to say he was sorry. But Mom’s glare kept him going.

When he finally finished, my reflection looked like a stranger. My head felt lighter, but my heart felt heavier than ever. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I stepped down from the barber chair. Everyone in the shop pretended not to look, but their eyes followed me until I left.

Outside, Mom didn’t say a word. She just grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward the bus stop. I remember every crack in the sidewalk, every dog barking in the distance, and the way my scalp tingled in the cold breeze. I remember thinking, “Why is this happening to me?”

That night, I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror for hours. I didn’t recognize the girl staring back. My hair had been the one thing I loved most about myself. I used to spend hours brushing it, braiding it, letting it flow down my back. Now, it barely covered my ears. I felt naked, exposed, like every flaw on my face was magnified without the curtain of my hair. When I went to school the next morning, people gasped. Some laughed, others whispered. A boy I had a crush on covered his mouth to hide his giggle. I wanted to disappear into the floor.