My Hair does not Define Me

Note: So...this is a story I wrote for an assignment assigned by my English professor and I'm sorry if it's not all that great. The week has just been crazy! Enjoy ya'll!

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I cut my hair so I could donate it to people who have cancer.

If only I could say that’s the reason I cut my hair. If only I could act like the selfless heroine in the story, the main character who’s willing to do anything for anybody.

But I can’t. What would it do for me anyways? People don’t change just because you give them a story to pity you-reality isn’t like those cheesy films where the victim stands up to the bully and they become best friends by the end.

I wish reality was like that. I wish I could walk around without someone yelling out “are you a guy?” I wish I could talk to a girl without someone shouting, “gay couple!”

Too bad reality’s nothing like that.

My feet skitter against the tiled floors, as my body pushes to walk faster. Shoot. My body never seems to want to go to band class. I’ve had a late streak since the first day of school, and I stretch my strides to the maximum, even though I know today won’t be the day I break my it.

“Anne!” My pace slows as the band room and Mr. A’s tall figure comes into view. Mr. A seemed like one of the best band teachers in the state, maybe in the country. But today he frowns at me, allowing his voice to go high. “how are you always late?”

“No idea!” I let out a small chuckle, trying to lighten the iciness hanging in the air. Mr. A’s face melts into a warm smile.

“Well get going then! The others are in Band Room 1.” I give him a tiny grin, even though my eyebrows have raised. Unless you count when we have to get our instruments, I’ve only set foot in Band Room 1 once, and that was only for ten minutes when Mr. A had gotten stuck in traffic. Why would we go in there?

The door squeaks as I enter. A large space stretches out in front of me, eight rows of gray, plastic chairs fill the room, instrument lockers crowd the walls, and a few drum sets sit in the back, a layer of dust blanketed over them. And in the first row of the chairs, twelve bodies slump in the seats.

When you hear the word band class, what comes to your mind? A large room, rows of chairs filled with students, twenty to thirty instruments breaking eardrums? Not my band class.

Twelve eyes focus their attention on me, but I’ve gotten used to the judgmental looks. It’s the price you pay when you’re always late.

“Hey!” Julie, one of the percussionists, squeaks my name and I allow my eyes to focus on her. Her hand flops loosely on her wrist, waving me over. I grin. Shifting my backpack to one shoulder, I gladly take the seat next to her and she smiles as soon as my bag hits the floor. “So…Do you know what we’re doing?” I shake my head at Julie, whose figure shrinks down in her seat at my response. I force my mouth into an apologetic simper.

“Okay my people! Let’s get started!” Mr. A’s voice cuts through the room, causing silence to drift in the air. The percussionists’ eyes stare blankly at the teacher, their eyes unwilling to blink. Mr. A grins, obviously pleased that he has drawn all attention to himself. “So, as you all know, our annual cheesecake fundraiser is coming up! And because it is growing near time, the band directors and I have invited the local cheesecake salesman to talk with you guys. He has courteously accepted the invitation and is taking time to talk with you so please…be nice.” Mr. A’s voice leaves a dark cloud in the air and we all shakily nod our heads, as if signing a contract for our behavior. He grins from ear to ear, before glancing at the golden watch around his wrist. His mouth twists to a sour frown.

“Hmm…He should be here any minute…I don’t know what’s taking him so-”

Knock knock… A soft knock buzzes through the door, so soft you can barely hear it. Mr. A’s mouth returns to how it usually is, and his feet pad against the carpeted floor as he makes his way to the door.

Creak…

“Aw! Mr. Joe! So glad you could make it!” I can’t hear the salesman’s response, only a muffled grumble. Mr. A chuckles before clapping the man on the back. “Oh Joe! The percussionists are in here.” Mr. A’s arm stretches to hold the door open as the salesman enters the room.

I once heard making a good first impression is important.

This guy obviously didn’t think so.

An icy hand snatches the air out of the room as the salesman hobbles in, walking to the front of the band room, the sagging, wrinkled skin on his neck bouncing with every step. His flannel shirt is two sizes too small, his gut hanging way over the waistline of his dirt colored pants and the thick-as-a-slice-of-bacon leather belt around his waist sags instead of tightening. White hairs try its best to hide the bald spot peeking from the top of his head and little silver hairs poke out of his chin like how seedlings poke out of the ground. I hold an eye roll back. I don’t know why, but a sour bile climbs up my throat, threatening to come out.

“Good afternoon kiddos!” The salesman’s voice scratches against his throat, like nails on a chalkboard. I cringe. “My name is Joe and I have been selling cheesecake for thirty years. So I know a lot about marketing and I’m going to teach it to every one of you between this young man,” Joe points to Jack, a percussionist that sits at the very end of the row, farthest from me. “To this young man…” His sausage sized finger points at my face. My skin turns as red as a newborn baby. This has happened countless times before, but never in front of a group of people, and certainly not in front of a group of my classmates. My eyes burn, stinging tears blurring my vision as Joe the salesman stares at me in confusion.

“Wait a minute…” His voice slurs, his words roll off his tongue at a slower pace than a turtle, as if he’s making sure everyone gets a chance to hear his stupidness. “Are you a…a girl? Or are you a boy?” Forcefully, I swallow the humongous lump in my throat.

“I’m a girl.” Willing the shakiness in my voice to vanish, I keep my eyes trained on him even though my vision has become blinded by the fat tears sitting in my eyes.

“Oh! I’m so sorry!” I can hear his vocal chords go high, hear it morph into that pathetically sorry voice. “Duh…Of course you’re a girl…I just…I just couldn’t…tell!” A light chuckle echoes through the band room as the salesman tries to lighten the stale air that hangs above our heads. Strong words climb up my throat, but die on my tongue.

I want to disappear. I want to scream, I want to cry, I want to punch Joe in the face.

But something doesn’t let me.

A dragon roars inside of me and the wounded warrior I call myself desperately tries to fight it off. Don’t let them see you break down, don’t let them see you cry. I hear Joe’s voice continue on-apparently we’ve moved on from my gender mixup. The dragon inside me blows out a fiery breath.

Stupid Joe. Stupid Joe and his stupid cheesecake business. How dare he throw me aside like a broken toy, how dare he mistake my gender, shrugging it off carelessly as if he’d only mistaken a worm for a snake. My body trembles as violently as an earthquake, and my heart pounds against my chest. I shouldn’t be getting worked up about this-it does happen all the time. Others will call me a boy, others will call me gay.

But my hair does not define me.

The bell rings, its high pitched sound like tiny hammers shattering glass. My body flies from the chair, the legs of the seat wobbling before crashing to the ground.

I don’t bother to pick it up. Just get out and get out fast. The thought races through my mind, faster than the speed of my feet sprinting out the room.

“Anne!” A deep voice calls after me. Is it Mr. A? Joe trying to apologize? A percussionist?

Whoever had the guts to call after me, I don’t want to talk. My feet pound against the tile, louder than my thumping heart, my body a blur in the wind. I sharply turn a corner, my sneakers letting out an annoying squeak.

I slow my pace to a walk.

Wipe my eyes.

Put on a bright smile for the world, to cover up the fire breathing dragon inside me that roars with my every step.

Tell myself to ignore the toxic feelings, the poison injected words that twist in my brain.

Pretend like nothing happened. Pretend like Joe didn’t silently kill me with his words, pretend like nothing happened.

Forget it all. I tell myself. Forget it all.

I wanted to stand out. That’s the real reason I cut my hair off. The thought of looking and acting exactly like others made my stomach turn, twisting with uneasiness. Might as well embrace my uniqueness and enjoy, right? But how can I, when to others they wouldn’t dare call me unique. When to others I’ll play the role as the outsider, as the lone ranger. Nobody ever realizes how much words can hurt, nobody ever realizes that they can sting more than a million bees piercing your skin.

People can act like idiots sometimes. Their own beliefs can ruin their relationships with their family, tear up something they worked so hard to build into a million pieces. We push friends away, we banish our grandparents to the tiny island in the back of our minds.

People need to listen. Shut up for a little while and just listen. Call your grandparents, apologize to your friends, invite your family over for dinner. Stop using the sharp-as-a-knife words and just smile. Because words mean everything. They can make you laugh, and cry, or scream.

Words can help.

But words can kill.