New Haircut

The scissors felt heavier The scissors felt heavier and heavier the farther up I pulled them. I grabbed a chunk of my freshly-straightened hair, and then stopped moving. I forced my head up, using the mirror to look myself in the eyes. My eyes went from their own reflection to my hair. My dark brown locks looked odd without their natural curliness. Normally, my hair reached my lower back. Straightened, it reaches my knees.

I took a deep breath. Not for long.

The sharpened scissors, that had retreated back down due to limp arms and shaking hands, made their way back up, just a couple inches from my head. They were opened and pushed towards the long clump of hair in my hand.

In. Out. In. Out. You can do this.

And the scissors snapped shut. That was it. I had started it, now time to finish. As I made cuts that were as straight and even as the borrowed (stolen) hair scissors allowed, I reviewed what I would tell my parents.

Mom...Dad...I...I'm not your daughter.

Basic. They'll blame T.V. My mom blames a lot of things on electronics, and this would be too easy to push away.

Guys...I'm a boy.

They'll make some kind of uncomfortable joke about my body that I'm not prepared for.

You know how I told you about that boy..?

They'll assume I'm pregnant, which will certainly not go over well. I'll be kicked out.

What am I gonna do? It's not like I've only been thinking about this for the past, like, week. I've been thinking and wanting and wondering for years. I can't live like this any longer. I'm tired of the lies. I want to be myself without any exception.

I'm not scared of what my classmates will think. It'll just be added to the long list of reasons to avoid Keiara, one of the only black kids in school. Plus, my hair gets made fun of all the time. I even get fake compliments (News flash, Kelly, nappy is not a compliment).

I was snapped out of my thoughts by the absence of hair for my scissors to cut. I was a mess. I'm always a mess, so, naturally, I took the entire hair kit when Mena let me 'borrow' her mom's emergency haircut bag.

I pulled out the spray bottle and comb and started trimming the edges flat, like Mena had taught me.

I got lost in my thoughts once again. It was like a small demon popped up on my shoulder.

You know what? Screw what Mom and Dad think. You're gonna march out there and tell them exactly who you are. You should be done pretending to be something you're not just for them.

The demon would have been right if it were there. The other side of my conflicted brain is kind of like a tiny, broken cherub.

Are you kidding? They'll kill you! You're already gonna have to beg for forgiveness after they see you like this! They spent years spending their money on keeping you and your hair healthy and this is what you've done with it? You should be devastated right now!

And, of course, there's the one voice that isn't a visitor. The one that finds residence in the back of my head. The one that can't be kicked out no matter how many eviction notices end up in the trash. Dysphoria- or Dee, as I call it-lives in the small cracks of my brain. Like a virus, it looks for weak spots and ruthlessly attacks them. All of my weaknesses, my insecurities, everything has been affected by dysphoria.

It doesn't matter what you say, what you tell them. They'll never understand. You will always be broken like this.

Thanks, Dee.

I turned to look in my full body mirror. I actually didn't look that bad. I had bangs now, but they covered my eyes unless I pushed them to the side. My hair was kind of frizzy, but pretty nice. I didn't want my family to focus on anything else or find another reason to get mad. I was wearing black leggings, jean shorts, and a purple T-shirt. How they could get mad about that, I don't know. But, then again, it was my parents. They would find a way.

I got out my hair crimper and started making my way down my hair. Surprisingly, it didn't look bad at all when I was done. My ends were still a little split, but not any more than usual.

I heard the door open. I was proud. The demon was right. I can do this. I'm done pretending to be something I'm not. I don't know who I am yet, but I definitely know who I'm not. I'm not Keiara, and I'm certainly not a fake.

I put on a tye-dye sweatshirt that my sister Tanya had regifted to me at Christmas, covered my head with the hood, and walked downstairs.

My living room looked different. My dad decided it was too stuffy and helped my mom redecorate. The once comfortable, fading blue was now a still grey color and my first grade macaroni art was now replaced with a family portrait and an age old picture of my grandma at an all-inclusive diner (believe me, you couldn't find many of those in San-Francisco back then).

"Hey, baby-girl," my dad called out when he heard my footsteps, "how was your day?"

My confidence went out the window the second he smiled at me. He looked happy. He looked proud. I messed this up, didn't I? I should've told them first. I'm screwed. I"mscrewedI'mscrewedI'mscrewed.

I was so confident 5 minutes ago. What the heck am I doing? I'm scared. I'm alone. I know Tanya could've helped. Or Mena. Or maybe even that stupid boy in my AP class who found out because my friends were being crazy loud (thanks guys).

I finally worked up the courage to tell him. My lungs were cut off, my heart was beating fast, I couldn't breathe.

"Kei? I asked you how your day was."

"Dad..?"

"Yes?"

I pulled down the hood on my sweatshirt, my heart in my mouth.

My dad stared for a moment, gazing at my hair, or lack thereof. I stopped breathing altogether for a moment as I waited for his response. His criticism. His yelling.

"Nice haircut. What do you want for dinner?"