Home » Language » English » The Itch

clipper-banner
Our Reader Score
[Total: 6    Average: 3.3/5]

I’ve always had beautiful hair, but I never really had a chance to show it off for my high school years. When I was 14 I first experienced what I eventually came to call “the itch”, and until some time during my senior year, it had always done a spectacular job of destroying my hair.

Let me start at the beginning. My name is Rebecca, and when I was 14 I was just like every other girl in town. Modest, friendly, and just starting to become obsessed with looking good. I never really had any desire to rebel against my parents, after all, they did a great job of raising me. But one day while watching my dad shave his head (which he had done since he started going bald) a strange, irresistible urge grabbed me. It was as if a long dormant animal had raised it’s head in the pit of my stomach and was urging me to do something I never would have believed myself wanting to do.

I tried to ignore it the rest of the day, but the thought wouldn’t go away, it just plagued my mind relentlessly. I reached up and toyed with my locks for hours while my eyes darted back and forth in disbelief in what I was thinking about. My parents asked me what was wrong at dinner, but I couldn’t tell them what I was really thinking, not if I didn’t want to be committed. So I went to bed, trying to read a book, watch TV, listen to music, anything to avoid what the growing voice in my head was telling me to do, but it was pointless, it just grew louder and more urgent with each passing minute.

That night I laid awake for over two hours, just staring at the ceiling, terrified at what I knew was about to come. I finally rolled out of bed around midnight, walking with a slow determination towards the bathroom. When I got to the bathroom I looked at myself in the mirror, a terrified looking girl staring back at me. I reached up and pulled the elastic band out of my strawberry blond ponytail, watched it tumble down my back and frame my face perfectly as always. My hair was one of my best features, if not my best. It was unbelievably soft, like satin to the touch, but also shiny and thick, falling to just below my shoulder blades and my natural blond highlights shimmering beautifully in the lights. That was the last time I ever saw my hair that long for over six long years.

I looked down at the scissors I had grabbed without even knowing it, and slowly set them down on the counter. I picked up a brush, and delicately brushed out my hair, smoothing its’ perfect shape with each stroke. After a minute or so I looked down to see that I had grabbed the scissors again, and with a few more strokes of the brush, I brushed my hair down into my face, completely covering it.

Don’t do it. A voice in my head finally protested, but even as I tried to fight the urge my hand came up and sliced through the hair even with my eyes. A few more snips and I was looking at pretty cute bangs for being cut by an amateur. I turned my head to look at it from other angles, very nice.

OK, stop now. The new voice urged, but to no avail once again. My hand reached up higher, and snipped off my new bangs so close to my head that only stubble remained. I reached back further and grabbed the untouched hair, placing the scissors at the base. At this point I knew that this was my last chance to change my mind. Sure the hair in front looked ridiculous, but the rest looked as beautiful as ever. In a few weeks I would have short bangs again, with the rest of my hair relatively the same. Maybe I could hide the front with a band?

My hand hesitated for a few more seconds, and with a few quick snips, those locks were gone too. I watched them as they seemed to fall in slow motion to join the small pile of golden red hair already lying on the floor, but the pile grew steadily larger as I reached back up and severed another handful of my beautiful hair from my head. Before long my silky soft mane was rapidly vanishing, and half of my head was covered with patchy stubble. Less than a minute later and the other half was bare. I was staring at myself wide eyed and afraid of what had just happened. Somehow I had just destroyed my best feature, and I was happy?

Well, there was nothing I could do now. Even though I was already missing my long mane, I decided to go all the way. I picked up the black electric clippers my father had used and raised them to my stubble covered head, then flicked them on. The short stubble fell to join the long severed locks as I cleared my head of stubble, and soon, it was all gone. My white scalp was fully revealed now, looking pale and sick from years of being hidden by my thick hair. I climbed back into bed as a tear or two fell, but I was still happy despite it.

My parents were NOT pleased the next morning. They grounded me for a week for my behavior, and even though my mother seemed almost touched by my choice was no match for my father, who had always loved my long hair. But it was worth it, I mean, I’d done it, now I could grow my hair out again and not have to worry about what I never had the urge to do, right?

Well. not exactly.

The summer going into my freshman year gave me plenty of time to start growing my hair back out, and since my hair grew fast I had grown it out to a cute pixie style by the time school started. Even though it wasn’t shaved like it had been before, a lot of my friends were still shocked to see my long hair gone. About 3 months went by and I was leaving practice one day to walk home. I reached up and messed up my short hair with a hand when suddenly it hit me. At first I couldn’t place it, where had I felt this before? But as I reached up and ran my fingers through my much shorter pixie, I knew that this was the urge that had cost me my hair months earlier, and that by the end of the night, I knew that my pixie would be gone.

The next morning my parents were surprised, but didn’t ground me. My friends reactions were mixed though. Some applauded it, others were horrified by it, asking what had caused me to do it, what had I done to what was left of my hair? But this was only the beginning.

All throughout high school, no matter how hard I tried to grow out my hair the “itch” would grab me, and off it would come. The furthest I ever got was my sophomore year, when I had managed to grow it all the way out to my collar. But one night I was doing my homework when the itch grabbed me, and 5 minutes later, it was piled on the floor. There were pros and cons of course, it was so much easier to maintain, and faster to get ready in the morning, and since my salon visits were few and far between I saved a ton of money. It never got in the way of relationships because for some reason I was never seeing anyone when the itch would hit. But then there were days when I would glance through magazines and see women with beautiful long hair that I would never have, and I would reach reflexively for locks that were long gone.

That all ended my senior year. One night I walked out of the bathroom, the remains of a chin length bob lying on the floor. I looked at myself in the mirror, seeing that familiar buzzed mane on top of my head, and somehow I knew that this was the last time for the itch. I didn’t know how I knew, but I just had a strange feeling that it would be a long time before I had to worry about the itch again. And I was right.

By the time graduation rolled around my hair had grown out to just above my shoulders, and I was starting to see the thickness and shine that I had remembered from before high school. Throughout college I worked at growing it longer and longer, having been deprived of it for so long I felt a new found affection for it. I lavished on expensive shampoos, leave in conditioners, and overnight strengtheners that I never would have touched before.

The work paid off, and as I watched excitedly year by year my hair grew out quickly and beautifully. As I went through college I saw my hair reach down past my collar for the first time in years, and then past my shoulders, and then to my waist, the longest I had ever worn it in my life. By the
time my final year in college rolled around my long thick mane reached several inches past my waist to the middle of my butt, covering my back like a thick sheet of satin without a hint of damage to show for its length thanks to the amount of money I had lavished to keep it that way.

But of course, it had its drawbacks, the worst of which was the pests. MY GOD, The pests! People I had never met before in my life bugging me about my hair, asking me what I used on it, and worst of all, touching it without asking me first. Over the years I had developed a deep regard for my hair, which had grown into a deep protectiveness if anyone tried to touch it. Anytime someone would reach out I would let out a yelp and jump back, getting my hair as far from them as I could. It was one thing to have it complimented, but after 100,000 random people reaching for my magnificent tresses while asking me questions about it, I was starting to get annoyed. Call me rude, selfish, vain or whatever you like, but if they were too lazy to take the time and grow their own out then why the hell should I let them mess with mine?

Almost four years after my high school graduation had me seeing my last month of college before I started applying for my career, spooky thought. I woke up one morning and took a nice long shower. Hopping out I thought about how to do my hair, should I dry it? Let it dry naturally? What to do? I decided to dry it myself, taking almost an hour before it was dry enough that I didn’t have to worry about it curling up on me. I looked at it in the mirror, silky soft and a wonderful strawberry color, my natural blond highlights shimmering in the lights. As I stood there smiling at how long it had grown and how nice it looked I had no idea that in less than 72 hours it would all be gone.

But I was completely naïve to its impending end, and I smiled to myself as I pulled on a light tank top over my head, reaching back and pulling my long hair out from underneath it. I slipped into a comfortable pair of jeans and began to walk out the door when I realized that I had once again tucked the ends of my hair into my jeans. I Laughing as I pulled my magnificent locks out of my pants and walked out the door, I thought back to if we had anything due in class today. I knew we had a presentation to give tomorrow, but I think I was in the clear for today. As I walked into class I saw my friend John wave to me. I waved back and sat in my usual seat in front of him.

John and I had been in at least one class together every semester since our sophomore year. He was an all around great guy, and one of the only people in the world that I trusted my hair to, since having three little sisters had taught him the ins and outs of hairstyling. A good looking guy, he stood at an even six foot, and was doodling on a piece of scratch paper when I walked in.

“Hey Rebecca”, he whispered, turning back to his doodle, “how’s it going?”

“It goes.” I replied as I pulled out my notebook and a pen. Our professor walked in and almost instantly began to lecture in his droning monotonous voice. As I bent over my notebook and took notes my strawberry blond locks kept falling in my face, but no matter how many times I tucked it behind me ears it kept coming loose so that I had to keep blowing them upwards. After about 10 minutes of doing this I heard John chuckle behind me.

“Need some help red?” he asked. Red was his nickname for me since he loved my long locks and playing with them made his day.

“Please” I responded, tucking them behind my ear once again.

“What’ll it be?” he asked as he pulled my massive mane from behind my back and draped it over the chair.

“Braid me.” I said as I continued to take notes for both of us. I felt the soft tugs and pulls on my scalp that told me he was working his magic, finally ending when I felt my new tight braid drop and swing behind my chair.

“Done.” he said as I reached up to feel my new braid, still amazed at how tight and perfect he always managed to make them.

As we left class and headed towards our next destination I felt a harsh pull on my braid that told me one thing, John’s annoying friend Darren had arrived and yanked my band out of my braid. Sure enough as I turned around my eyes fell on the 6’2″ weirdo that stood before me. Eerily thin and lanky, Darren thought he was good friends with John, but that was only because John had never had the guts to tell him off.

“How’s it going RED?” he nearly screamed my name, he knew how much I hated him calling me this, almost as much as I hated the thought of him touching my hair.

“My name is Rebecca.” I said sternly to Darren, shaking my head to get my hair free of the braid.

“Whoa, someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.” he said, a sick grin on his face.

“Dude, she hates when you call her that.” John tried to stick up for me, I wish he would have told him off already.

“Well how can I resist with that hair of hers?” Just as I had finished straightening my hair he reached out a hand and ruffled my silken locks. I ducked out from under his hand with a squeal, hair now hanging in a tangled mess in front of my face.

“Quit it man, she hates that.” John knew how much I hated having my hair touched, especially by Darren.

“I’m gonna get going.” I said, walking away. As I felt my long and now messy hair swaying behind me I heard John begin an angry talk at Darren. I smiled with some satisfaction as I tried to straighten my hair for a second time.

I was walking to my next class when I suddenly heard someone yell my name from behind me. “Rebecca? Rebecca Gregson?” I turned around to see an old high school acquaintance Joanna Cook walking towards me with a look of surprise on her face. Joanna and I had had several classes together in high school, and even though we had chatted often we had always had a neutral relationship, not quite friends, but by no means enemies.

“Hi!” I replied, a little surprised myself, not at seeing a familiar face, but at the way our hair had switched roles. When we had been in classes together I had always envied her hair, it being down to her waist, brown, and beautiful (but not nearly as much as mine now), and she had often stated that she adored my hair, which had been in a short pixie whenever the itch had let me grow it out long enough. But the Joanna that stood before me was not the Joanna I recognized, gone were the long feathered chestnut locks that I had always admired, replaced by a short choppy cut that closely resembled how mine had been in high school. “I like what you’ve done to your hair.” I finally managed to get out.

“Oh thanks, she replied, reaching up a hand and tucking a loose strand behind her ear, “I always liked your look so much that I just had to try it out you know? But wow! Look at yours! I almost didn’t recognize you.”

She reached out a hand to touch it and at first I almost recoiled, but then remembered that this was an old acquaintance and let her feel it.

“My God it’s so SOFT! How did you do it?” she asked.

“Oh, you know,” I replied, “lots of work, trims, and conditioning, lots of money.”

“Well it looks amazing! I’ve been thinking of growing mine out again, but this is just so easy to maintain.” We talked for a bit longer before heading our separate ways, her going to her next class and I headed home.

When I got back to my apartment around eight o’clock I sat in front of the mirror and brushed my hair out one last time before bed. As I sat there brushing it out I felt something strange rising up in my chest. It took me a few moments to identify what this feeling was, but when I did my hand stopped dead, my eyes widening in fear. Something had come over me, something horrible I thought had gone for good.

The itch was back.

I grabbed at my mane with both hands, grabbing two huge fistfuls of my luscious, soft mane and burying my face in the warm, silky mass of hair which smelled faintly of my strawberry shampoo. Tears welled up in my eyes almost instantly at the thought of losin
g these golden red locks, and the knowledge that I now had no choice. My hair was coming off, and there was nothing I could do about it. As I rummaged through the drawers trying to find the clippers a thought popped into my head, my presentation tomorrow! I couldn’t give a speech looking like a skinhead! The itch was almost too strong, I had to fight my way to bed, and even then I tossed and turned throughout the whole night feeling my long hair pressed softly against my back.

The itch didn’t let up all night, and I barely got any sleep. The little bit I did get was only interrupted by my blaring alarm, telling me I was late for class. I swore and ran to the bathroom, taking a fast shower and hopping out. I looked at the clock and saw that I was way behind, no time to dry my hair or do my makeup, I just towel dried my hair the best I could and ran a brush through it.

Usually my shimmering locks provided me with a wonderful sensation of them always being warm and soft, but walking out to my car I felt my hair wet and clammy sticking to my back and soaking my shirt. Every thought I had kept drifting back to me grabbing those wet locks and losing them to the clippers, but I fought the urge, just a few hours more. As I climbed into my car I looked in the rearview mirror at myself and shuddered, I looked like a zombie without my makeup, a fact that was helped by the deep black circles under my eyes from getting no sleep. I pulled up and ran to class, making it just in time as the first presentation started.

John saw the distress I was in and asked if I was ok, I snapped that I was fine back to him and got up to do my presentation. I stumbled through it all right, amazed that I made it considering how much I had to fight the urge to now yank my hair out, the sopping locks soaking through my shirt and pressing against my back. When I was done I sat down for the rest of the class. When it was over I left poor John behind and almost ran to my next class, when I finished with the day I sagged back to my apartment, reluctant but ready to part with my hair.

My hair had almost dried as I walked through the door, becoming frizzy and huge like a lion’s mane around my head But as I plugged in the clippers and shut my eyes for the inevitable a thought came to my head, one to get rid of Darren forever. I willed myself to place the clippers down and slinked off to bed, even the itch couldn’t stave off the exhaustion that consumed me as I fell asleep the instant my head touched the pillow. My hair was so huge by now that it was like a pillow by itself, and I passed out with my face buried in my warm, soft locks.

The next morning the itch was raging me full force to finish the job, but I had to fight it a little more. I woke up with my hair hanging in my face, filtering the sun like a red satin curtain. For a few minutes I simply lay there, watching my hair flutter with each breath, then I got up and set about showering and styling my hair. I had never fought the urge nearly this long, but whether it was because of my great idea or because it had never been this long my resolve held out a little longer. Everything had to be perfect for this to work, so I took a shower and conditioned my hair, and then I stepped out of the shower and dried my hair for what I knew would be the last time, taking my time to make it look good. Watching it lift higher and higher in the blow drier’s current and shimmering as it flew around my face made me feel both sadness and desperation at what I knew was to come, but there was nothing I could do about it.

Suddenly I smelled something burning, it couldn’t be my hair could it? I grabbed a large mass of my soft, mostly dry locks and held it up to my nose, but as usual it smelled sweetly of my strawberry shampoo, how long before it smelled this good again? But then my attention turned to my hair dryer as it began to smoke, and then with a sputtering rattle, finally died on me. I sighed and set it down, my hair was pretty much dry anyways, and after tonight I wasn’t going to need the dryer anyways. I combed it out and as usual, it fell beautifully from a center parting. I tried to use my hands to fluff it a bit, but my hair was so healthy and heavy by now that it barely made any difference. I made sure to fluff it out the best I could and slightly curl the bottoms so that it looked thicker and softer than usual, and then spent even more time straightening the rest out. After an hour it came out perfect and beautiful in a thick, shining and ravishing mane of living silk, no one could resist touching it now.

Even to this day I still remember that moment exactly like a photographic memory, my hair shined a beautiful crimson and gold, the lights giving it a brilliant glisten like a blanket of living satin. I almost cried at how gorgeous it was, but the itch didn’t let any tears through as I put on my makeup, thinking how I good and horrible it would feel at the same time to watch it falling from my head in clumps later that day.

I wanted to look good for my last day, so I put on a white satin blouse underneath a leather jacket and a knee length black skirt, finishing the look with calf length boots. I wasn’t one to usually give into a trend, but I had always loved the respectable and fashionable look of this outfit, and it did look really good on me, professional, but also comfortable. Plus I knew that John loved this look, and I wanted him on my side as much as possible for what was to come. Sure enough as I walked to class everyone seemed to want to touch my hair. Guys looked at me everywhere I walked, some of them upsetting their girlfriends. As I sat down in front of John I apologized for yesterday, laying on a sob story about having a hard time with my hair that morning.

“It’s just that I’m getting such a hard time with my hair, everyone touching it, it’s driving me nuts! Sometimes I want to just get rid of it all!”

“Well don’t do anything too nuts.” John said, a small bit of what sounded like hidden worry in his voice. I felt slightly guilty at what was to come. I knew how much he loved my hair, almost as much as I did, would he still talk to me after this was over? Meanwhile the itch was getting worse by the second, it took all of my strength not to walk out of class right there and drive to the nearest barber, but I knew what I had to do. So I sat through the rest of the lecture, absentmindedly twirling a lock of hair around my finger, my mind thinking about yanking it out right there.

Finally class let out, and almost as if on cue I saw a girl coming towards me to comment on my hair. As she asked me what I used I saw her reach out and touch it. I snapped at her and as she ran off terrified I turned towards John.

“Oh my God, what’s wrong with me?” I said, running a hand through my hair.

“Wow, you must really be stressed about it.” I saw Darren walking towards us out of the corner of my eye. This was it.

“I swear, the next person who touches my hair, I’m going to… OUCH!” The last part was cut off by Darren, who had grabbed a handful of my hair and yanked me back. hard.

“Hey RED, how’s it.” But John cut him off by shoving him hard against a wall.

“Cut it out man! She hates that shit!” but it was too late, my cue to exit was here.

“That’s IT!” I walked to my car while John tried to talk to me, as I pulled away I saw John start yelling at Darren. I finally broke down and began to cry as I drove home, smearing my mascara and feeling my hair swing into my vision. I started pounding the steering wheel with the palm of my hand in anger that I didn’t have a choice. At this point my hair had become more than just hair, it was like a security blanket, like a good friend to me. Whenever I was down I could always run my hands through it and the softness would cheer me up, now I had to lose it? It wasn’t fair! I ran my hands through my locks, knowing that this was the last chance I would have to do so. I had come to love my hair so much, and now in less than half an hour it would be gone for good.

I pulled over, the itch had becom
e too much, I had to give in somehow right now. I looked in the mirror, my shining red locks hanging in my face, I pulled the keys out of the ignition, grabbed a lock hanging in my face about as wide as my pinky, and sawed through it roughly with my keys at about eye length. I watched my own eyes grow wide with disbelief as I felt the lock separate and held it in front of my eyes. Oh my God, it’s all going to be gone, I thought as I stared at that one gorgeous lock in my hands, then I opened my fingers and let it drop to the floor. Looking in the rearview mirror I could see my long golden red hair was now offset by a single lock that fell to right above my eyes, but my itch was satisfied for now until I got home, so I started up the car again and drove the rest of the way.

For a second I thought that maybe the itch would subside as I drove home, but a few miles later I felt it rebound full force and knew that time was running out for my hair. How long before it was gone? I was three miles from home so ten minutes? Maybe five if I hit all red lights? Either way, that wasn’t very long, and the entire drive home I continued to run my fingers through my hair trying to preserve the memory.

I parked the car and walked up to my apartment, half of my mind screaming to get rid of my locks already, and the other half begging not to go through with it. I felt my locks rhythmically brushing my elbows and the small of my back as I walked to my apartment, it was these little things I had come to love that I would miss most about my hair, and I felt tears forming again. But the itch was urging me worse than ever before as I walked past my neighbor Shelly.

“Hi Becky, how.” her eyes flicked to my hair, “what happened to your hair?!?”

“Can’t talk, have to get rid of the rest.” I said as I shot past her. It took her by surprise as I saw her confused look turn to revelation at what I had just said.

“Wait, what?” she tried to follow me, but I slammed the door behind me as I ran to my bathroom and picked up the clippers, looking at my gorgeous red mane that was now offset by the very short lock in front. I tried vainly to put them down so that I could brush my hair one last time for memory, but it was no match as I snapped on the clippers. Looking back on this whole mess, I think that if I had been able to put down the clippers and brush my hair out one last time I would still have my beautiful shining mane today, but at that point I didn’t have the strength to last any longer. How long could it have been by and how beautiful would it have been? Would it have fallen to my thighs like I had dreamed of as a little girl? Would I have been able to land those shampoo commercials I had been trying for and were now starting to finally call back? I’d never know, because after taking one last look at my beautiful long hair and running my fingers through my lush, silky mane one last time for memories sake, I pulled it back with one hand and placed the clippers at my hairline with the other.

As the clippers bit into the very front of my hairline I had a hundred memories flash back in my mind in a split second. In my mind’s eye I saw myself brushing out my chin length bob, putting it into a ponytail for the first time in five years my sophomore year in college, giggling with my friends at how it had finally reached past my bra strap, laughing at myself as I accidentally tucked it into my jeans, chewing nervously on the ends when I was stuck on a test question in class, jokingly trying to look sexy as I peered teasingly in the mirror around the curtain of golden red silk that I had dropped into my face, and of course, the vast amount of time I had lavished on it to look as beautiful as I could before I came here tonight. All of those memories flashed through my mind in less than a second, and then I snapped back into the present as I felt the clippers plunge deep into my lush mane.

I felt my hair and my worries disappearing as I saw the clippers sink into my hair, chewing away the hair in front and slowly working backwards. It had been a long time since I had done this and I forgot the one of a kind sensation of clippers going through my hair, a feeling that I both loved and hated. It almost felt like someone lovingly running their fingers through my hair, but instead of admiring my long silky locks like someone would normally do, the clippers were slowly eating away at my most prized possession. I finished with the first pass and took a look at my handiwork, my perfect red mane was now missing a strip right down the middle, but that changed quickly. I reached up and ran the clippers over another lush bunch of silky locks, reducing them to stubble in seconds. My long hair seemed to move in slow motion as it floated down to the ground, still shining beautifully as they fell all the way to the ground.

Again and again I made passes over my rapidly vanishing mane until half of my head was bald and the other half was still covered in gorgeous red hair. Something about this point threw me off, I turned my head and looked at the side of my head that still had hair, and if I concentrated hard enough I could see how I had looked mere moments ago, a NORMAL girl, a beautiful girl with the most amazing mane of hair on Earth, but then I snapped back to the job at hand and continued to strip away my mane. I repeated the process and within 5 minutes my familiar shaved head was back. I looked down at the huge pile of golden red locks lying on the floor, so huge and soft that I felt a tear spring into my eye.

I almost burst into tears there and then, it was all gone, really gone. My beautiful silken mass of hair had vanished completely, and my bare head had paled considerably after four years under my thick, lush mane. After four years of conditioners and compliments, blow drying and brushing, softness and silkiness, it was all lying on the floor in less than five minutes. I couldn’t believe how easily I had been able to completely destroy something I had loved so much, but I had, and it was gone for good. Less than five minutes ago I had been looking into this mirror at a pretty girl with beautiful shining hair that would have made any girl stroke her own locks in envy, and now I was looking at a freak, just like I had been four years ago.

I kneeled down as a moan escaped my lips, what had I done? I had loved my long, soft hair with all of my heart, but now I felt utterly naked without it. I reached up and felt my head, and sure enough there were no long locks to run my fingers through for comfort, only the prickly stubble of a shaved head. I was about to finally dissolve into tears when suddenly there was a knock on my door. I walked over to it just as I heard John’s voice on the other side.

“Becca it’s me,” I heard him say, how was he going to take this? For so long I had wanted him to hold me, to run his hands through my hair as I fell asleep in his arms, but now I knew that I had just blown that. “Becca listen, forget Darren, he’s just a dick, I told him off today after you left.”

I sat by the door a little longer, thinking what to do. “Becca, please, let me in, I want to talk to you.” I opened the door, and he started to walk in before stopping in his tracks and looking at my head, not in disgust, but surprise.

“Oh my god, what happened?” he asked as he brushed traces of my former glorious mane off of my sweater. I tried to smile, but I couldn’t muster it quite yet.

“It’s alright John, I wanted to do it, I just. I just.” and then I completely burst into tears as John swooped to me and caught me and held me, saying nothing. I knew what he wanted to tell me a second ago, but I didn’t want to know what he thought about me without my beautiful locks, I couldn’t believe how much I wanted my hair back right then and there.

That’s when it hit me, every time the itch had grabbed me, it had always been after a major breakup, it was some sort of twisted, unconscious revenge. I had just broken up for the last time with my ex five days ago, and now here I was crying over my lost locks. Even when I was
14 I had just broken up with Brian, my first boyfriend. If I had just waited one more day, maybe even one more hour, John would have finally asked me out and he could have been running his fingers through my silken locks like I had always loved, but whether it was his hesitance or my impulsiveness, it was too late for that. I simply sat there crying uncontrollably for a long time.

Well, John didn’t ask me out right away after that, and I didn’t blame him. After all, who would want a bald, emotionally unstable girl for a girlfriend? But after a couple of months, when both our friendship and my hair had grown to something more pleasant, he finally asked me out. We have been together since then, and both very happy. Last month, after three years of dating, he finally popped the question, and I agreed without hesitating. I think we are going to be happy, and even my hair has grown back out.

Right now it reaches the middle of my waist, not nearly as long or beautiful as it was that year in college, but it’s getting there. I want to grow it out just a little longer than it was before, I think the bottom of my butt will be fine, because John likes it long and I want to put the past behind me. When we started going out, he told me how much he loved my hair long, so I decided this was the least I could do for him. I still don’t know if I was right about the itch or not, and I still feel vulnerable to it everyday, but at least now I know that if one day I get a wild urge to let it all fall to the floor, I’ll have someone there for me.

Leave a Reply

clipper-banner