You do not currently have permission to view the full text for this document. Please sign in to an account with an active subscription or contact support.
I’m 16 years old, and I have very long, frizzy hair. It has been the same style and length since I was five years old. Per my mother’s orders, I do not leave the house until it is blown out and neat, though that is a difficult task. When I am due for my next cut, I decide I will finally make a change: a chop.
My mother tries, repeatedly, to talk me out of this decision. She likes long, willowy, Kim Basinger-y blonde hair. But I, for once, am unyielding.
We drive to the hair salon—my parents and me. This establishment happens to be attached to the YMCA, where my family, embarrassingly, would occasionally exercise together. The plan was as follows: 1. My parents would drop me off at my haircut. 2. They would walk to the gym, leaving me there. 3. I would chop it just past my shoulders. 4. I would walk to the gym to meet my parents. 5. We would all go home.
My mother and I enter the salon. I am clutching a picture of my hero, my acting idol, Claire Danes. She has soft and beautiful shoulder-length hair. I understand my hair will never be quite that Pantene-ish, but it can at least be the same length. I go to the bathroom to change into my robe while my mom chats with our stylist friend. When finished, I excitedly talk to my stylist and explain my hair goals. The crumbled picture of Claire Danes I stored in my purse says it all. I wave goodbye to my mom. Off to your workout!
My stylist starts to cut. I fantasize about how cool and different I will look at school. But then, something terrible happens. She retrieves her hairdryer and starts to dry.
I’m confused. I asked for about five inches off, but from my vantage point, it looked like a removal of about two, maybe two and a half. I try to make sense of this turn of events. Maybe she is confused? Maybe I’m confused? I manage to speak up. “Are you going to cut more?”