The Cut
“Shorter,” I said. “Take it all.”
January seemed a fitting moment for fresh starts. It wasn't born from some halfhearted resolution or unfounded faith in the promise of a new year. It wasn't shoved in with a promise to swear off chocolate or set the alarm an hour early every Monday through Friday. It wasn't a pointless promise scribbled onto a sticky note at the first of the year, destined for a date with the trash can. Even with the best of intentions, that sort of thing always seemed like bullshit to me. I brushed the loose hair from my arms and closed my eyes as the sound of metal clicking echoed loud in my ears.
When I opened my eyes again, the light from the window danced on the scissor blades, temporarily robbing me of my sight. Blinking stars away, I caught a glimpse of my progress in the mirror. It was shorter than it had ever been, barely skimming the ridge of my ears. The sight of it settled on my stomach better than I ever imagined. Shearing it all away was easy. Almost fun, in fact. Each piece of hair at my feet was a weight dropped off my shoulders – demons chopped away with force. Masochism, self-pity, cowardice, shame – it was all down there, tangled in a messy nest of blonde at my feet.
I was tired. The sleepless nights had become too plentiful to count. The toll they took on my body and spirit was exhausting. I was sick – sick of the hurt, sick of the long hours pleading with God and my own mind for solace. Worse than that, I was sick of myself – sick of wrestling with the weight of blame that fell squarely on my own shoulders.
“Are you seeing anyone yet?” the stylist's voice behind me asked.
I shook my head, answering the question with only a smile.
“You should get out there and have fun. You're only young once.”
I had heard that a million times from others equally as well meaning. I smiled again and shrugged. Sometimes, it was easier to say nothing than to read the chapters of my horror story piece by piece. “Seeing someone” wasn't on the horizon. In fact, it was so far in the distance I had to wonder if it would ever be part of my future. Still, I had to admit - it wasn't the way I envisioned my early twenties.
Before the damage, before the emotional angry, raised, and red scars, I had been different. I had known confidence. I was happy, innocent, and probably more than a little naive. Probably more than a little immature. I held a strong belief that love existed and didn't sting. That was over. The world was a little darker now. My confidence was crushed, my innocence gone. Everything was different. Even the face that looked back at me in the mirror.
I could have walked away. I stayed, allowing myself to be the subject of relentless negativity. Why? I couldn't say, despite asking myself a thousand times. The innocence that yearned to see some good had left me unguarded. I let it in, allowing my own strength of will to fail me. I could have been tougher. Where I ignored, I could have listened to the nagging voice in my brain telling me to run. Coming to terms with my choices was impossible, so it stayed on the back burner to simmer for another day.
There had never been love, not as I knew it. It was one thing I still believed in and wasn't yet willing to release. Love doesn't inflict trauma, and it doesn't spew hate. It doesn't make excuses for itself, and it doesn't exist for its own needs. As far as I could see, it had never existed at all. It was just a four-letter word born out of lies, worn by fear as a mask. Love didn't scar.
“They're not all like him, you know. There are some good ones out there.”
I had heard that before, too.
Sometimes, I thought I would have preferred fists. Sometimes, I thought I was crazy. Still, internal strikes formed the worst kind of bruise, deep and calloused around the edges. Verbal strikes and emotional demolition lived inside the brain. Those were permanent. They didn't go away when the words died off and he turned and walked away. Like a tire, they burned slow, sparking in the darkness.
“Well, almost done. Are you still okay with it? I know it's a big change.”
It didn't matter if I hated it. Asking me so late in the game was just ceremony. I was stuck with it – she knew that, and so did I. We had come too far to turn back. Part of me wondered what he would have said. Blonde had never worked. Brunette hadn't either. Neither had suited him, so getting rid of it wouldn't have either. I glanced at the pile of hair on the floor and nodded.
“Keep going. I'm okay.”
That was a lie. I wasn't okay. I had watched the downward spiral of another human being, bearing witness to the rutted road littered with scattered pills, breakdowns, and empty bottles. It had been like rubbernecking a chain reaction wreck. There's not a thing I could do to stop it. Playing savior had never worked and playing dumb didn't either. One way or another, he was bound to take me into the depths of emotional hell with him.
His words and actions, tossed over my barriers, lingered in the weakest parts of my brain. For the rest of my life, they will stay there, rooted deep. I knew that, just the way I knew that occasionally, during life's darkest moments, the past would try to tear at what was left of my confidence when I needed it most. It would dig its nails into my newfound self-worth, poisoning my mind a little at a time with leftover toxicity. Because of him, and a little because of myself, I faced my future calloused, chapped, and raw.
I couldn't let that happen. As I sat, watching the chunks of hair departing my scalp, a strange peace settled over me. Strength had a way of rising from pain. Anger, sadness, spite – I had been through those emotions, but one thing that never made it to the table was regret. I couldn't weep over a past that had birthed a stronger soul. That alone made it all taste palatable. I had spent enough time looking back, suffering over internal torments I may never conquer. Moving forward was the only direction left to go.
I was at the end of it – the finale. The culmination of years of ugly words and ugly love had bubbled to a boiling head. He was long gone, leaving me to clean up the messy aftermath. I had done just that. A dawn appeared on the horizon and finally, I lifted my head from the pillow. A little worse for the wear, maybe, but I wasn't beaten.
The scissors dropped onto the cart beside me. Nothing but air remained on my neck. The rest was gone, leaving an inch or so of baby softness. I ran my fingers through it, feeling the sensation changed. It felt good – an instantaneous relief I had craved for so long. The release was cathartic, pulling it all away and leaving the darkness swept into the past. I had cut him away, cut all of it away. I was starting over on my own terms.
“Do you really like it? Be honest.”
The mirror reflected myself back to me and for once, the smile on my face wasn't forced.
“I love it.”
-Amber Cook
Amber Cook’s work has appeared in numerous publications, including Literary Mama, Adanna and Deep South Magazine. Her short story “Little Mother” was also chosen for inclusion in Dzanc Books’ Best of the Web series. She lives, writes, and raises her family in Tennessee.