Personal Narrative: Short Hair

I sat in the air conditioned waiting room of the hair salon. My hands fidgeted with my wavy shoulder length hair; I had grown tired of it. For the past year, I had been cutting it excruciatingly slow because that was all my mom allowed. Finally, after a month of endless begging, she had allowed me to get a trim, saying “no more than 3-4 inches, or get an A-line bob” and I agreed, at the time. But when I had walked in my hands were shaking because this was something much more.

The lady who called out my name had long black straight hair with her bottom tips dyed light brown.

“So what are we doing for you today?” She asked and wrapped a cover over me when I sat down. She began to run her hands through my wavy hair trying to get a feel for
“Give me a minute.” I watched as she walked away to the front where the other stylists were.

I looked at myself in the mirror. This was a mistake; I knew it. Why did I think I could do this? Maybe I should just keep it this length. Many people have told me that short hair doesn't fit round faced girls. Maybe they were right. I snapped out of my thoughts when I saw an older lady appear behind my chair.

“Hello, I guess I’ll be doing your hair. The other girls don't have as much experience with short hair,” she paused and examined me, “at least not with girls. Girls usually don't have short hair, you know.”

There it is. The comment I've been waiting for. It was only a matter of time but, to be fair, I was in a Mexican hair salon. My mother said the same thing when I voiced my initial idea of short
Leave that to the boys. Everyone will assume things about you. Why not keep it pretty and long like you used to have it?”

And I had listened to her, at least until now. The look of judgement on the older lady was apparent as she started cutting my hair, but I had prepared myself for this. What I didn't prepare for was the other people in the salon. My anxiety made my thoughts grow. I swear I heard whispers and laughs. “Why the short hair? Isn't she a girl?” My hands began to tremble and I focused my attention on the the hair falling onto the floor. It may sound cliche, but it felt like a weight was being lifted, both literally and figuratively. After cutting it, she began to blow dry it. When everything was done, I was amazed because the person I saw in the mirror was exactly who I wanted to be.

“All done.” The hairdresser took the cover off of me and walked me to the front to pay. My hands began to shake again as I passed families in the waiting room. The look of judgment was evident on their face and I didn't know how much longer I could take it. As She began to ring me up I saw a toddler playing with the toys next to me.

His look was different than everyone else; perplexed described his look. When he caught me staring, he smiled saying “you look