It was an unusually warm New England day in the month of September when our twenty-something protagonist decided to get her hair cut. She had lost many hours debating the effects that such a common event would have on the people she loved. You see, unlike most women her age, the woman in question had the misfortune of being closely related to older individuals who cared more about the length of her hair than the protagonist’s welfare. She realized that her decision would impact the relationships she had with these people. Yet, tired of dealing with snarls, temperature discomfort and pain that is only experienced when one catches their hair in a door jam or a part of their own body, she selfishly knew what had to be done.

Slowly descending into the stylist’s chair, she felt the weight of the past few years begin to lift off of her. Since she had last dared to have scissors and hair meet she had lost and gained countless gifts, chances and tears. She realized that this cut would be as much for her head as it would be for her heart. Perhaps once she had a new reflection her outlook on the world would change too. As she was donating her hair to a worthy charity, the first snip was more of a chop. With little warning, ten inches of heat, snarl and pain were no longer attached to her head. Instantaneously, a fire in her that had long been extinguished burst to life and she was filled with a kind of happiness that she had denied herself for too long.

“This is freeing.” she whispered to herself. “So freeing.”

Yet, she realized her happiness had a limited time span. She knew that once she entered her house the fire would be diminished, all but snuffed out by the unkind words and looks expressed by the people who claimed to love her the most. By realizing this, she pushed aside her famously shy and abundantly private persona and openly displayed her emotions. For the time being, she was allowed to rejoice in her new do. There would be time enough later for forced regrets and self-doubts.

Having set (or rather been manipulated into setting) a limit on how short her hair could be, the stylist’s remaining task was only to tidy up the dysfunctional ends. Though she spoke of the health of her client’s hair and the pride she felt for her work, the protagonist was too lost in her own thoughts to hear the stylist’s every word. She simply smiled politely and emitted short responses when it seemed necessary. To the stylist, this was just another head of hair. Why should the protagonist embarrass herself and try to make it more than that?