Snip snip, buzz buzz – it will always grow back.  That’s what I told myself as I watched myself playing with scissors in the mirror, chunks of my once lower back length hair falling into the bathroom sink.  Then I picked up my dad’s electric razor.

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As a child I always knew I was a little different.  Unable to make friends, always on the outskirts of groups at school.  When my teenage years hit, I decided that I was no longer going to hide my difference but acknowledge it.  Being the 80’s, I discovered punk, new wave and goth.  I finally found a tribe I could belong too, where being different, not fitting into society, was celebrated.

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My parents didn’t understand, finding my newfound expression difficult.  Slowly I transformed before their eyes from a shy, introverted little girl, into someone they could no longer recognize.  I dressed in black, second hand clothes I tended to rip more, with extreme eyeliner and pale white foundation.

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It was not enough though, not for me.  I wanted more.  I looked at all my favorite bands with their clothes and hair and I wanted that too.  But my mom was against it, once saying no boys would want to go out with me if I looked “like that” when I showed her a picture of Robert Smith from the band the Cure.

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I knew she was wrong though.  The boy I was dreamy for had spiky, dark hair that stood straight up, and he wore eyeliner too.  He seemed different, like me, seeing the world through the same lens as myself.  At lunch one day he noted that I would “look amazing” with black hair.  I was done for.

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I was a latch key kid so I knew I had two hours before my parents would get home from work.  I quickly got to task, not entirely sure what I was doing.  I coloured my hair with a box dye I bought from the drug store, a black so dark it was almost blue.  Then to cutting my hair, and shaving my hair, and cutting more of my hair.  Once done, I added a little gel, teased it and I had my masterpiece.

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Shaved on one side, then short, short spikes, slowly getting longer over the top of my head, then finally cascading down to my shoulder on the other side.  I admired myself in the mirror, truly impressed with what I had accomplished.  Surely the boy who had stolen my heart would love it!  Actually, I realized that didn’t matter so much as I was in love with it.

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I only had a second to enjoy the moment before I heard the front door open.  Mom was home, calling out for me.  My stomach lurched; adrenaline coursed through my body.  I was going to get the punishment of a lifetime, I was sure.  I panicked, spinning around the bathroom, half contemplating going through the window.  Knowing there was no real escape, I took a deep breath, opened the door and came face to face with my mom.

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“It will always grow back.” I heard myself stammer.

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She smiled.  “I love it.”