Hair Depression

This is an old piece I wrote for class. It deserved more love than it got. I hope it shows someone they are loved, no matter what their hair looks like.

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He loved my long hair. He used to rake his fingers through my curls, feeding me a fairytale about how I was the most beautiful girl. The sun rays would hit his skin and transform him into a golden angel with diamonds embedded in his skin. Then it would hit my skin, I would become his matching twin. Two Black angels sitting in a mound of blankets hiding from the world. It was as if heaven came down onto Earth. Who knew Black angels existed.

I stare at my bathroom mirror, smudges of dirt and built up dust decorate the frame. But I could see the way my eyes dull with the drapings of depression. My body hammers with the drumming beat of anxiety. Every voice in my head trying to calculate why this is a bad decision. But I can’t do it any longer. I hate my long hair. I wish to be free from the chains he put upon me. I curl my fingers tight around my pink scissors. The gleaming blades mock my cowardness. It is just hair! It will grow back. And what matters more, my appearance or my freedom. I grab a length of my box braid, direct the scissors to my scalp and cut along the braid. As the scissors slice through the delicate strands of hair, tears begin to streak my check. One braid down.

I don’t have a plan or hairstyle in mind. All I know is to keep cutting, until I can no longer feel a speck of hair on my neck. But as the braids fall onto the tile floor, the tears keep coming and my brain twists into a tornado. Every question I have begins to brew during this moment-why would he leave, why won’t he call, what did I do wrong. Every insecurity, memory and trauma came back, all I can do is keep cutting. Once the last braid reunites with its friends on the floor, I look over my work. My tiny curls were trying to poke through, like a bud in a patch of flowers. I slowly run my fingers through the bustle of dried curls that were once hidden away in tight braids. I feel my lips begin to spread into a smile. I’m not his type anymore. He likes his women with long hair. I have short hair now.