Symbols

I cut my hair last Summer.
With the biggest and scariest pair of scissors I could find, so sharp that they were used to cut bones and I feared I may accidentally cut a void in the space-time continuum with them.
I jerked my head back, almost defiantly.
_{I was ready.}

Silly of me to think that getting rid of most of that hair I loved so much would rid me of shame as well.


My hair was the beauty I didn't deserve to have.
Every tiny curl enclosed the fingers of the ghost of my actions and I dreaded the idea of confronting them.
Every strand, when lighted by the Sun, reminded me of my pitiful self and how it wasn't worth to be reflected by a mirror.
But unforgiving, the silver surface would tell me.
_{It's a beauty you don't deserve to have.}


I saw it fall round my feet, felt the weight abandon my head as it died on the welcoming floor.
I saw the beauty collapse and cripple as if charred to the core.
I saw the light bleed from it all like a river of tears.
_{And still the weight of shame would bend me.}

When my roommates came in, I remember their excited shrieks and giggles.

"You look so cute!"

_{Please don't say that.}


I wished I could stop caring, so maybe I wouldn't have thought it necessary to punish myself.
I wished (harder) I didn't have to look at a mirror everyday and just see a reflection of ugliness and pitiful regret.
I wished (afterwards) I could stop getting compliments about my new haircut, because they would just revolt me further.
I wished I could have made them understand that my hair was the only thing I truly loved of me.
_{And there was nearly none left.}


I decided I'm never cutting my hair that short again.

There was hate in the eyes the mirror would show me.
_{I deserved that.}
There was grief in the broken tips of my curls, but they would only cry through me.
_{I knew that.}
There was a memory engraved in those scissors, in those hands wielding them, in those silky strands forcefully slaughtered and forever it shall live.

_{I won't need to cut my hair that short again.}