Personal Narrative Essay: Why Did I Cut Her Hair

“Why did you cut your hair? I liked it better when it was longer,” is possibly the most irritating thing to hear. I used to genuinely worry that I did not have the “right face shape” for a shorter style. Months passed before I finally realized that my doubts were absurd. Short hair was the standard for men and no one cared if they had the “right face shape.” Now there was nothing holding me back from a pixie cut…except my mother. The first time I asked, it had ended in an argument. I mentioned it briefly over dinner and she firmly disagreed. “Why can’t I cut it short? It’s my own hair,” I said, raising my voice. “You just can’t,” she stated. I remember marching up the stairs, stomping through the hallway, and slamming the door to my …show more content…
This was my family’s usual salon. Our jackets were hung in the closet near the entrance after being greeted. Immediately, I was seated in a soft chair at the hair wash station. The employee scrubbed my head and cheerfully asked about which grade I was in and my plans for the future. I forced a laugh and told her I was in 8th grade with no clue who I wanted to be. It was the same answer I would give anyone who asked. She hummed in response and resumed her rigorous massage. I squinted at the bright ceiling lights and thought about how quick washing my hair would be after today. Awhile later, the shampoo was rinsed away and a towel was wrapped loosely around my head. I sat on the cramped bench with a handful of other customers awaiting my turn. The barber was chatting animatedly with my mother while styling her permed curls. Once she was finished, she stood and gestured towards me. I pushed myself off the seat walked uncertainly to the empty chair. “The usual trim?” he smiled …show more content…
The blades buzzed near my ears like a swarm of wasps. Like wasps, it was rather terrifying. “Are you sure you want this?” my mother asked. I knew she hoped I would say no. “I’ve been sure for a year,” I responded immediately. The barber chuckled knowingly and resumed his work. He slowly shaved the sides and the made his way to the back. I could hear the razor but I could not see it. My fist clenched and unclenched at my sides. There was no turning back now. It was exhilarating like a rollercoaster before the steepest drop. When he finally finished, he grabbed a small, hand-held mirror and raised it up to the back of my head. I quickly fumbled for my glasses and pushed them on my nose. “How is it?” I was at a loss of words. It was a completely unfamiliar person in the mirror, but it was perfect. All the doubts I had instantly vanished. My longer was never as smooth and silky as the other girls I new. The messy texture suited the pixie cut, however. It was nice to appreciate the person I saw in the