The Big Chop

My mother nurtured my hair like it was her own, her fingers a constant presence, smoothing, treating, and styling it with a love so fierce it became an extension of herself. Every Sunday, she would sit me down between her knees, hands moving with delicate care through each strand, combing out the tangles, massaging oils into my scalp. The ritual was hers, not mine. My hair was big, bold—standing tall like a crown on my meek and quiet body. My hair spoke for me when I didn't want to be seen. And in a way, I knew it wasn't truly mine. It was hers.Everywhere we went, the compliments followed, like a constant echo. "What beautiful hair!" they'd say. "Look how thick and shiny it is!" And with every remark, my mother's chest would swell with pride. Her smile was wide, radiant, basking in the admiration that wasn't even directed at her, but it didn't matter. My hair was her masterpiece, and I was the canvas she displayed to the world.She loved it. Everyone loved it. Everyone except me.I knew exactly what I was doing the day I grabbed the scissors. I could still hear the faint hum of voices from the kitchen as I stood in front of the mirror, staring at the reflection of the girl I barely recognized. The girl with the quiet smile, the obedient posture, the soft words. I knew, in that moment, what I had to do—what words could never convey.I closed my eyes and made the first cut.The sound was sharp and decisive, almost too loud in the silent room. I could feel the weight of each curl falling, strand by strand, until I stood before the mirror, my hair scattered around me like dead leaves. My chest heaved, and for a second, I hesitated. The girl in the reflection wasn't the same. Something had changed, irrevocably. The silence that followed was louder than anything I had ever heard.When my mother walked into the room and saw the mess on the floor—the thick, curly strands lying lifeless at my feet—her face crumpled. Her lips parted, but no words came. And in that moment, I knew: she wasn't just mourning the hair. She was mourning me.The meek, quiet daughter she had so carefully shaped was gone. And no amount of words or reprimands could bring her back. My mother and I stood on either side of a chasm I had created, but for the first time in my life, I didn't feel small. I didn't feel like a reflection of someone else's pride.I felt like me.

I never would have known the freedom that comes with not having hair if I hadn't done it. Why did I change? Was it heartbreak? The devil? Or was it something that snapped inside me, something sudden and irretrievable?

Perhaps it was none of that. Maybe I just liked the sound of her questions, following their rhythm because they were easy answers. She never noticed that I didn't really change at all. I just found my voice. But to her, I didn't need words; I spoke to her in words she best understood.

I'm done being that girl. I'll carve out my place in this world—snatch one if I have to. I'm not waiting for permission anymore.