“This is your last chance to back out, Erika,” Mom cautioned as she unhooked her car keys from the worn wooden rack she bought from a yard sale.
“I’m not backing out,” Erika said firmly, grabbing a bag of shrimp chips from the pantry for the road: stress snacking. For almost two years, Erika fought the urge to chop off her waist-length hair. It took months of convincing for Mom to agree to take her to this appointment. As Erika gazed at her long black mane in the mirror by the doorway, she vibrated with anticipation.
“Alan, you’re not even trying to talk her out of it anymore,” Mom cried. Her voice pitched up and down with frustration. She’d lived in the US for over 20 years, but her Thai accent still dominated her.
“Come on, let the girl have her fun,” Dad said from the couch, only half paying attention. His blue eyes were trained on Sunday Night Football, which was poorly named because it was two in the afternoon. “Hair grows back,” he said.
“It will take years to get it back long. She’s wasting her pretty hair.” Mom marched into the family room and stood directly in front of the television.
“Come on, I’m missing the play,” Dad motioned for Mom to move.
“Let’s go Mom, we don’t want to be late,” Erika urged, walking into the living room and reaching for Mom’s wrist, who jerked away from her daughter’s touch with a huff. She stormed out of the room, her feet slapping against the linoleum flooring. Erika followed.
“Yeah, honey. Don’t be late,” Dad’s voice was far away as his mind latched back onto the game.
North Carolina humidity beat down on Erika as she followed Mom into the driveway. When Erika opened the door of the family car, caustic air blasted her in the face. Before Mom even turned the key in the ignition, she began ranting again.
“You have a small, pretty face! Your hair suits you so well,” Mom said as the car roared to life. Gray strands peppered her once thick, black hair. It had thinned from decades of poisonous stress.
“Mom, I know you don’t get it, but this is something I need to do. I’m not even making you pay for the haircut. I just needed a ride,” Erika said, patting the front of her shorts pocket to triple-check that her wallet was there. Then, she reached into the bag of shrimp chips which crinkled obnoxiously. When she ate one, the dry cracker disintegrated into a powdery paste. Her stomach unwelcomingly received it- the pouch felt shriveled with anxiety.
“Is this a… gay thing?” Mom nearly whispered the word when she stopped at a red light. The sinew on Mom’s fingers strained against her thin skin as she tapped the steering wheel. She wouldn’t turn to look Erika in the eye. Ever since her daughter came out two years ago, “gay” was a word Mom seldom dared utter. It was a term too shameful to share, even in private.
“It’s a me thing,” Erika replied quietly, bowing her head and twisting the hem of her Kehlani T-Shirt. A long, heavy curtain of black hair encased Erika’s shoulders like armor and obscured her face. Despite the AC blasting her face, she felt sweat collected at the base of her neck.
“People won’t compliment your hair anymore,” Mom said. Grief colored her words gray.
“No, they won’t.”
They drove on in silence. Car rides with Mom were usually filled with endless talk. Mom would complain about her coworkers or chatter about what she’d make for dinner: her thoughts were on constant display. Today, Mom was rebelliously quiet. Erika sat tensely under silence’s oppressive reign. Through the car window, she watched as endless fields speckled with cattle and faded barns rolled past.
Mom was somewhat of a reckless driver; she first learned in Thailand where driving laws are more like suggestions than rules. After living in America for so long, she gets far fewer tickets than she used to. Through the years, Mom’s habit of speeding remained. Yet today, Mom spent an extra few seconds at every stop sign. Instead of racing to beat the yellow light, she descended slowly to a halt. It took 20-minutes to drive to the closest town, but to Erika, it felt like an hour. Her eyes would dart to the car clock to remind herself they couldn’t possibly get there late.
Erika’s anxiety eased a little when they pulled into the parking lot of the salon. She unbuckled her seatbelt as soon as Mom parked and jumped out of the car. Part of her couldn’t believe when she walked back out the door of that salon, her hair would be short. Mom had to fast walk to catch up to Erika before she rushed in the door.
“You don’t have to do this,” Mom pleaded one last time like Erika was about to walk off the lip of a ledge instead of into a hair salon.
“I want to do this,” Erika grabbed her Mom’s hand and held her warm dark eyes. “Thank you for bringing me. I know you didn’t want to.”
Mom didn’t respond as they walked towards the salon. It was ambitious to call the dingy strip-mall Supercuts a salon, but it was better than Erika shearing her head in the bathroom with kitchen scissors. She’d considered taking matters into her own hands but decided against it. Erika needed to do this the right way. Over a year after coming out, Erika had scrounged up the courage to declare she wanted to cut her hair short. Mom spent the subsequent months trying to talk her out of it. But once Erika’s pristine locks degraded into a tangle of dead-ends, Mom could no longer object to a haircut. Erika made an appointment the moment Mom reluctantly agreed. She knew Supercuts would almost definitely take a walk-in, but she didn’t want to risk not making an appointment.
The door jingled as they entered the near-empty salon. The receptionist greeted them cheerfully. Her overgrown fuchsia acrylics cracked against the sticky keyboard as she searched Erika’s name.
“Please follow me,” the receptionist said.
“I’m fine by myself,” Erika said as Mom tried to follow. Mom gave her a skeptical glance before plopping into a worn waiting room chair. Erika was led to a line of styling chairs, each paired with a vanity and mirror. The faint yet sharp chemical smell of Barbicide emanated from the blue jars filled with combs and scissors. The receptionist pointed Erika to a chair and told her a stylist would be with her shortly. From the reflection in the vanity mirror, Erika could see Mom tapping her foot like a rabbit as she scrolled through her phone. Mom picked at the foam that poked out the corner of the seat, glancing at her daughter every so often.
It didn’t take long for a woman with mid-length faux-ginger hair and yellow-tinted teeth to walk behind Erika’s chair.
“My name’s Sally. What can I do ya for, young lady?” She ran her hand through Erika’s locks from behind the raised chair, her fingers catching in the knots. “Such beautiful long hair! Just a trim?”
“No…” Erika scrambled to pull up her Pinterest board. The reception in the strip mall was lacking, and it took a long moment for the pictures to load. After two years of dreaming about cutting her hair, the board held over 300 photos: pixie cuts, shaggy mullets, and even a few French bobs. But one style stood above the rest: “I want a wolf cut.”
“A what?” Sally’s smile froze on her lips.
“Like… a shaggy mullet? Short but with layers,” Erika motioned to the pictures on her phone. As she scrolled through the pictures, Sally’s face twisted and she sucked in her thin lips.
“Sweetie… that won’t suit you. You have such a delicate face. What about trying long layers?” Sally grabbed a brush from the vanity and began brushing hard through Erika’s thick hair. She held in a wince as Sally tore at her skull.
“No thank you,” Erika said. The blood beneath her face boiling from Sally’s rejection. But Erika needed her to understand. Her fingers trembled as she held up the photo once more, “This is what I want.”
Erika looked up from her phone, and Sally’s piercing blue eyes stabbed into Erika’s in the mirror.
“How old are you, honey?” Sally asked with a patronizing sigh, grabbing the cross pendant resting on her chest and twirling it thoughtfully.
“16,” Erika said in a small voice.
“The boys won’t like ya, sweetie. All the girls your age wish they could have hair like you. And look at those big exotic eyes- you’re beautiful! Why ruin it with such a boyish cut?” Sally’s smile was like molasses, sticky and cloying. Erika felt her resolve rot like enamel beneath unbrushed teeth.
“Thank you for your advice, but I know what I want. Please cut my hair just like this,” Erika tried to say sternly. It felt like there were microscopic shards of glass vibrating at the tips of her fingers. All the blood had rushed from her extremities to her face.
“I don’t know… I think you’ll regret chopping it off. What’s your Mama think about this? That’s her, right?” Sally pointed to Mom’s reflection in the vanity mirror. She caught Mom’s eyes and motioned her over. Erika’s blood froze in her veins as Mom stalked towards them.
“Whatcha think, ma’am? You okay with her cutting off all this stunnin’ hair?” The brush crashed through Erika’s locks once more. She fought to push down the wetness pricking behind her eyelids. Her throat ached with heat and pressure like she was trying to swallow a geyser.
Mom was silent for a moment.
“She’s not going to listen to me,” Mom said finally, her thinly-plucked brows pinched. “Cut it.”
Then, Mom hurried back to her seat, like she couldn’t bear to watch the massacre she’d begrudgingly sanctioned. Somehow, Erika wanted to cry even more. Her reflection swirled and blurred in the vanity mirror as tears swam in her eyes. She blinked them free then hastily wiped them away, hoping Sally and her Mom wouldn’t see.
“Alrighty…” Sally still wasn’t convinced. She reluctantly grabbed a smock from a drawer and draped the black cape around Erika’s shoulders. Then, she gripped Erika’s hair into a low ponytail and tied it at the back of her head. The collection of strands was so thick it almost didn’t fit in Sally’s hand. “Ready?” Sally asked, scissors poised at the base of Erika’s neck. Erika gave a quick nod, holding her breath.
It was simpler than Erika had anticipated. The scissors groaned and squealed as they severed thousands of strands in a matter of seconds. Then, it was a cluster of black keratin in Sally’s pale, veiny hand. Part of Erika expected to feel separated from something essential, like an amputee. All she felt was free.
Just as Erika requested, Sally chiseled her hair into fluffy layers. When she was done, Sally unclipped the smock from Erika’s shoulders. Then, Erika hopped from the chair to admire herself in the mirror. Elation expanded and sparkled in Erika’s chest like a newborn star. Her hair was still a little longer than she wanted, but with weight off her head it felt like she could finally lift her chin. Erika admired her sharp jawline: the bone jut was accentuated by the harsh cut. Erika walked towards her mother who was waiting by the receptionist’s desk.
Mom took in Erika for a moment: her short yet flowing hair, her bright eyes, and the grin on her face. Their eyes met. Then, Mom nodded curtly and pulled out her wallet.
“Wait Mom, I said I’d pay,” Erika’s hand flew to the wallet in her shorts.
“I pay for all your other haircuts.” Mom gave exact change to the receptionist, thanked her, and walked out the door.