My father was a career military man and did three tours overseas. Each time he returned home from deployments his skill at attacking others in darkness was sharper and keener. He drank heavily and became easily enraged, used the skills he had mastered to be quick and precise when striking out at the object of his ire. The only daughter in the family, I was not spared the violence inflicted upon my four brothers. My father did not discriminate in his lashing out. My disadvantage was the possession of gloriously long dark hair that both parents insisted I grow. My four brothers were required to keep their hair short at all times in conformance with military standards, whereas my hair was expected to grow nearly to my hips.

My mother wanted me to look like one of the porcelain dolls she collected. She plaited my hair every day before school and weaved ribbons through my two long braids. Every day I would came home missing a ribbon from my hair and with the sashes on my dresses askew from playing on the jungle gym or climbing fences. My mother’s focus remained on my hair throughout my years at home. She saved her old nylons with runs in them and wrapped my hair in them at night, being optimistic that I might awaken with beautiful ringlets like those on her dolls. The ringlets she fashioned on my head never held beyond an hour.

She took small sections of my hair and rolled them up tightly to my scalp, securing them with bobby pins hoping to create curls. The result of her efforts was that I ended up with a tender scalp. As I got older, she placed stiff brush rollers or pink cushiony rollers in my hair before bedtime. When I protested, my mother never listened to my feelings; they were irrelevant. Each night it was a monumental effort to prevent her work from becoming dislodged as I tried to sleep lying perfectly still on my back. Not moving any limbs for fear of repercussions.

In the morning, my mother would carefully remove each roller and look to see what she had created. My hair was as willful as myself, rebellious and resistant. At the end of each day my mother’s face registered disappointment at the sight of my long black straight thick hair hanging down.

It was always at the end of the day that my father began his heavy drinking. Which often led to out-of-control rages and my father striking anyone within his range. He justified his violence, rationalizing it as discipline. He was fast with his punches. And if I turned my head slightly, he took liberty at grabbing my long black ponytail. Entwining his fingers through strands of hair grasping it tightly and firmly. He would yank down hard, bringing me to my knees. When I would cry out, he would tighten his grip further. As a young girl I was no match for his strength. I swore to myself each time this happened that when I grew older no man would ever again force me to my knees.

While attending junior high school, I came upon what I imagined to be a solution to this particular vulnerability. The idea came to me during the last half of the year. I was desperate and determined to defeat my father’s cruelty. I was going to enter high school the following year if I survived being twelve. I was powerless in dealing with my parents. My words meant nothing to them. They had all the power I lacked.

Every day while walking home I passed a small hair salon. As I walked by I could smell chemicals wafting through the air from the hair permanents being given. I imagined the women trying hard to obtain the look of Farrah Faucet, the actress in Hollywood, whose hair was fabulously long, wavy, and had layers coiffed perfectly about her beautiful face. Each time the glass door opened a cloud of these chemicals escaped into the air and up my small nose. I would hear chatter and delightful laughter from the women inside the small air-conditioned salon. They sat under large round plastic hair dryers, waiting patiently for their hair to dry while reading fashion magazines or gossiping.

One afternoon while walking home I decided to enter the salon. I was so nervous but felt compelled to push myself. I walked in and told the lady behind the reception desk that I did not have an appointment but that I wanted to get my hair cut. She turned away from me in her swiveled chair and called out to the hairdressers asking if anyone had time for a haircut. There were only four chairs in the small salon and each one occupied. The hairdressers stopped what they were doing to check their scheduled appointments. My knobby knees were shaking slightly as I waited; I willed my nervousness to abate. Finally, Linda, the hairdresser farthest away in the room said she had time to cut my hair.

“Give me ten minutes,” she said. The lady in the swiveled chair turned back to me and said: “Looks like this is your lucky day. You can have a seat over there and put your schoolbooks on top of the magazines, darling.” Her words were kind and cheerful. I had never been called darling before by anyone. I sat down to wait, and my knees began to quiver again. I laid my hands on top of them, hoping the lady behind the desk was not watching. The ten minutes seemed like an hour for me. It was like waiting for my father to come home from work and go into one of his tirades. But I was determined to defeat my father and mother. This moment of being in the hair salon felt empowering. I had to prevail.

Linda walked over to me and said she was ready. She told me I could leave my schoolbooks on top of the magazines. No one would take them. I did as she instructed. I had a small leather coin purse on me in which I collected my babysitting money. I only earned fifty cents an hour and half of what I earned I was forced to give to my father. I told Linda when I sat down in her chair that I only had five dollars. Would she be able to cut my hair for that amount?

She replied, “Well, that depends on how much you want me to cut off, sweetheart.”

Linda draped a big plastic cape over my body and snapped it closed. She then put her foot on the metal bar below the chair and pumped me high up where she looked at me in the mirror. She gently pulled the elastic rubber band out of my ponytail and removed my thin headband. My hair fell loosely down my shoulders over the back of her salon chair. Her fingers glided through my thick strands as she lifted and released them to fall naturally. She smiled at me through the reflection in the mirror. I smiled back, enjoying her gentleness. She asked me what I had in mind.

My dark brown eyes lit up and I said, “I want you to cut it.”

“Okay, but sweetheart, how much do you want me to take off?”

“All of it.”

“Are you sure, sweetheart? You want me to cut all of your hair off?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You know people who make wigs pay good money for hair like yours. Would you like me to put it in a bag for you when I have finished cutting it?”

“No, thank you, but I only five dollars to pay you. I don’t want my dead hair. You can have it.”

“Okay, sweetheart. I am going to pull your hair back up into a ponytail again. Then I am going to cut the whole thing off at once. You don’t have to pay me since you are giving me your hair.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Linda held up her cutting scissors and I watched as she opened the silver sharp blades and began to work her magic. She held my ponytail with one hand and cut with her free hand. The ladies in the salon watched in silence and a couple of them shook their heads back and forth as though Linda was doing something wrong. I stared into the mirror watching my twelve-year-old self transform as my most prized possession and my burden was sheared off. I was elated. My crowning glory was gone.

There would no longer be any more tresses for my mother’s desires or my father’s dominion. What I had thought was my one outstanding attribute had vanished. When Linda finished, she held up my ponytail for me to see in the mirror. I remember feeling relieved from the weight of my burden. She then gently twisted my long hair into a neat coil and laid it on her silver work tray, next to the brushes, combs, plastic clips, and silver scissors. This one act of outward rebellion had set me free, or so I thought.

Linda continued working to even up my short hair on the sides of my head and in the back. I could not speak and just nodded with my smile still plastered to my lips. And then I felt the wet saltiness of my tears sting my cheeks. I was overwhelmed with emotions and did not have the capacity to express them. When Linda was done shaping my now very short hair, she unsnapped the cape from around my neck. She handed me a hand mirror and told me to hold it up high just above my head.

Then she slowly turned the chair around so I could see the sides and back of it. The back of my neck was no longer hidden from the blackness of my hair. I put my silver plastic headband back on my head. Part of my being as I knew it had been cut off. My desire to survive outweighed having my beautiful long hair. I now looked more like one of my brothers with short hair close to my head. I knew that my father could still throw a fast and hard punch. Time would tell what he would do to me.

I left the salon with five dollars still in my small leather coin purse. I walked home quickly. We were all expected to be home at a particular time every afternoon. It was hot and humid and the dress I wore to school that day was patterned in red, white, and blue. It reminded me of our flag. And the word freedom.

As our house came into sight I slowed my pace. Beads of sweat were trickling down my face. I took deep breaths knowing that my mother was probably looking up at the kitchen clock on the wall waiting for me to walk in the door. I crossed the front lawn and tried to open the screen door quietly. But its springs creaked noisily, announcing my arrival. I stood there sensing the screen closing and then felt it hit my butt with a nudge. I held my schoolbooks tightly against my flat chest. My mother came out of the kitchen wiping her hands on a kitchen tea towel. She stopped mid-step and stared at me. Her dark brown eyes bore into my dark brown eyes. I could not feel myself breathing. Her anger rose quickly, and she was across the room in a split second. I willed myself not to flinch. I held back my tears while my fear grew large. I did all I could to hold my ground.

“Go to your room! We will deal with you when your father comes home!”

I turned slowly away and walked to my bedroom. Part of me wanted her to hit me and get it over with. But I knew she was too shocked and stunned. I could sense her feeling that I had betrayed her. She could no longer try to make me look like one of her porcelain dolls. I put my schoolbooks down on my bed. I sat there next to them not moving. I was trying to figure out what my father would do, and how severely they would punish me.

I did not move from my bed. My knees were shaking no matter how hard I willed them not to. I sat until I heard my father’s pickup truck come down our block. He pulled into the driveway and slammed the truck door hard. I knew my mother had called him at work. The metal closing upon metal made me bolt to the hall bathroom. I pulled down my white cotton panties and sat on the toilet. I peed nervously into the porcelain bowl. I could hear my parents angry muffled voices through the walls. My knees continued to shake and now my whole body was trembling with fear.

My father yelled out for me. I stood up and pulled my cotton panties on, flushed the toilet, and took one last look at myself in the mirror. I smiled through my fear. I swallowed hard to keep my tears at bay. I knew I was going to have to bear his wrath, pay for my act of rebellion. I tried to be brave. I walked out of the bathroom and into the hallway. Again, my father yelled for me. I knew my mother had reported what I had done. I walked toward the kitchen. His burning Marlboro cigarette was lit and the smell permeated the air. My fear in me rose like bile up my throat. My father had been a soldier longer than I had been alive. He had survived Vietnam. I had only survived him and my mother. She had already poured him his bourbon. I entered with my head held high. My short black hair spoke words that I could not formulate as his rage burned inside him.

I never saw the first blow come at me. Bam! I was knocked off balance but grabbed the back of a kitchen chair, righting myself. In Vietnam, the American soldiers learned to be vigilant and alert at night to the enemy’s movements. They learned to shoot first or be shot and killed. His fist came at me a second time. This time I fell to the kitchen linoleum floor that sparkled spic and span clean. You could eat off the floor. My mother kept an orderly house always. My ears rang loudly. My tears bolted out and flowed down my face. I barely heard my father’s words telling me to get up. His white face was filled with rage and glowed red. He glowered at me. I was helpless. He doled out my punishment.

He changed my twelve-year life. I could only leave the house to attend school. No extracurricular activities. No television. I was to help my mother with whatever she needed. I wasn’t allowed outside after dinner. I was to go to my room after I did the dinner dishes every night. I became a prisoner in our own home. And then he did the worst—making me hand over my small battery-operated silver transistor radio. My solitary confinement was to be in silence.

The final punishment was not explained to me, but I quickly understood. He and mother withheld speaking to me or expressing any affection at all. The silent treatment was fully enacted. I was no longer their daughter. I had become the enemy by my own free will. I had fought them with the only power I had by taking control of my hair.

It took a year for my hair to grow out. I lay in bed many nights wondering why my hair was so important, the only feature that people thought made me look pretty. During that year, my tender head healed from the frequent battering at my father’s hand. I still wore dresses but my mother no longer tortured me with trying to make my hair curly. I had a reprieve for a year. I thought about how I should have been born a boy like my brothers. Then short hair would be expected. But I was born female, and my thick black hair would eventually grow back. My freshman year of high school my hair was inching past my neck and heading for the top of my shoulders.

When summer arrived, my hair flowed down between my scapulae on my back. It had a rebirth. I have school photographs that show this rebirth. The ones that always made one look happy while sitting in front of a fake backdrop. My long black hair became a part of myself once more and with it came my father’s power and fury. I was forbidden from cutting my hair until I turned eighteen. When I legally became an adult and earned the right to leave home. Forever.

My junior high school years were a time of discovery as it is for all children. They were the years that defined me with my strength and not my long black hair. My father was a person who was strong physically and mentally. Soldiers can’t be weak. In many ways, I became a young soldier to survive the blows he handed out randomly, unexpectedly, still a child.

My hair was one of the many battlefields on which I fought and survived my parents. I still struggle when I hear that a woman’s hair is her crowning glory and that my own hair is beautiful. And even though both my parents are deceased, their words from years ago echo in my memory. Especially, at times, when I am alone sitting, quietly, twirling a thick strand of my black hair over and over again as I think about words to write.

-Susan Delgado

Susan Delgado is a San Diego writer and a native Californian. She is Creative Director of her jewelry site Thousand Watt Co. Her writing has appeared in The Kelp Journal, The Sunlight Press, San Diego Decameron Anthology, Being Home Anthology, A Love Letter (or poem) Anthology, The Anthology Beautiful, Movement- Our Bodies in Action Anthology, and Ruby Literary Press, along with forthcoming work. She finds writing to be essential.