I’m sorry mom.

It’s the first thought that passes through my head as I stare into the mirror. Lifting the scissors to the edge my hair, I cut it lightly. The satisfying little snip of the blades overrides the pounding of my heart in my ears.

Shaking almost, I stare at the tiny broken hair strands that have fallen into my palm. My hair had been my pride for as long as I had known. I had never known myself to even dare to cut it beyond a trim, much less attempt the task myself with the craft scissors I used for petty arts and crafts. Yet, standing in the middle of my tiny twin bathroom, I began to feel a twisted sense of power.

Bolder now, I grab a fistful of my hair and cut through it with the scissors once more. Staring at the mesh of hair in my hand, I let it slip between my fingers.

Thick, black hair falls in clumps onto the white tiles till it looks like thousands of tiny spiders accumulating at my feet. And almost, barely to hold it back, I choke down a sob.

This girl. The one with long, beautiful hair. She feels like a fraud.

She’s too perfect. Too smart. Too elegant. Too poised.

I feel like a fraud.

Because I’m not poised. I’m not elegant. Not smart. Not perfect.

And then I’m hacking through the hair, no thoughts in my head beyond the painful attempts at freeing myself from this forced crown of flawlessness. Because she’s not real. She never has been.

The scissor can barely cut now, too much hair caught in its crevices but I don’t care. I need to stop it. I need it all to stop.

When I finally do stop, it’s because my hand has reached a point of paint from being stuck inside tiny kid scissors and not because I’m anywhere near done. I stare at the angry red lines that remain on my hand from the vigor with which I’ve been cutting. Taking care to avoid my reflection in the mirror, I run my hands in the cold water of the sink.

My face burning, I dare dart my eyes to see the girl in the mirror. It’s barely a second before I force myself to look away because I can’t bear to see the truth. To know that the world can now see what I’ve always known inside.

To be honest, I’m surprised by the shame I feel. I thought embracing the raw honesty of who I am would be liberating, an almost freeing moment. But being here, being forced to see it, it’s almost worse than pretending. There’s no avoiding it now. Because everytime I’ll look in the mirror, it’ll be there.

Sitting on the floor of the bathroom, I’m more than aware of the burning warmth of tears pressing against my skin as they drip onto the tiles, constantly drawing my attention to the discarded hair I so painfully want to forget. And then I see it once more.

My escape. My chance to forget it all. My one true means of peace.

Grasping the scissors in my hand, I find that I’m not longer crying. Taking a deep breath, I steady myself.

Hands no longer shaking, focus anew with a different clarity, I press the blade to my wrist, finally ready to be free.