My hair is long again. For years I have had it hacked off, with a razor. I would feel the razor cutting through each strand like a caress on my scalp. He was happiest when my hair was short, when it did not brush against him, when it did not come out and stay on his pillow.
He liked to make the bed with mismatching pillowcases. Now all my pillowcases are white.
I remember another boy, young like me, exclaiming "look at your hair!" as it spread across his pillow and he pushed inside me, and pulled out; somewhere he had another girl. Her hair was yellow and she never brushed the kinks out.
I was always brushing the kinks out then. Before I chopped them all off.
When I was 12 it was long. I wore it scraped off my face everyday, and twisted back, when the fashion was to let it sweep heavily over the forehead, hiding flirtatious eyes. I didn't have any flirtatiousness in my eyes to hide.
But for him I chopped it all off. I butchered it with a straight razor. He had another girl, before me. She had yellow hair too; it was long and wild. She wasn't as smart as me. She let her hair free, and she didn't get to keep him. I did. But I didn't get to keep my wild hair.
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