movie. Everything felt like that now.
You sure about this, Nyah?
In answer, I reached behind me, grabbed a handful of hair, and scissored it off my head. The hair hung limp in my hand, black with a thick streak of fading purple running through the middle of it. I turned my hand over and watched it fall to the floor.
Snip. Another clump fell away.
Then another and another . . . until my hair covered the floor around my feet like dark straw. Austin returned with electric clippers, a can of shaving cream, a hand towel and a razor. He tapped the seat back with the clippers. “Ready?”
I nodded. “Chop, chop. Let’s do this.”
He placed one hand on my head to steady it and turned on the clippers.
“Wait,” I said. “I have a scar. From the accident. Don’t freak out, all right?”
He paused. “I won’t.”
Drawing a deep breath, I watched our reflections in the window as he pressed the clippers to the base of my skull and slowly mowed a path to the top of my head then along my scalp. The vibration buzzed against the bone, and long sheaves of hair cascaded to the floor, leaving exposed skin that felt cold.
He worked quickly, adjusting the clippers closer to my skin with each pass before finally slathering my scalp with shaving cream and running a razor over it in long streaks—periodically wiping the blade on the towel—until my head was as bald as his.
Austin rubbed my head with the towel, like polishing a bowling ball, and stepped back. He said, “Welcome to the Bald and Beautiful Club.”
I lifted my hand and ran my palm over my scalp, wincing when it reached the ragged scar. My head reminded me of my dad’s freshly shaven face.
“There’s a bathroom down the hall, on the left,” he said. “Go rinse your head before we mark the locations for the TAP. When you’re done, meet me over there.” He pointed to a nearby contraption that resembled a dental chair.
I stood and brushed hair off my shirt and pants.
“Take as much time as you need,” he said. “I’ll get everything ready.”
I walked down the hall, rubbing my scalp. It felt as though a portion of myself had been cut away, and I would never get it back. My hair had been a part of my identity: Nyah, the girl with the nose ring and funky hair. It had also covered the memento of the most horrible thing that’d ever happened to me. It was a part of my mask, I guess. Now it was gone, years of growth and care sliced away in less time than it took to brush it in the morning.
Emotion had churned inside me while Austin was shaving my head, but it didn’t turn into a tsunami until I saw myself up close in the bathroom mirror. I didn’t want to cry, but the tears came anyway, so I let them. They slipped down my cheeks while my fingertips drifted along the newly sensitive skin. My hair would grow back, but Nyah Parks as I knew her—as Mom and Dad and Tommy had known her—had departed and someone new was looking back at me.
But maybe, I thought, she wasn’t a stranger, after all. Maybe she was a truer picture of the desperation I felt in the deepest part of me—exposed, no longer able to hide the scars and imperfections, now dragged into the light for all to see.
My fingertips lingered along the eight-inch scar that ran along the right side of my skull, front to back. Besides a broken arm, the deep gouge was the only injury I’d suffered in the accident that had claimed the rest of my family, the result of my head shattering one of the back windows. It’d taken forty-eight stitches, eighteen staples, and skin from my thigh to patch up my scalp. Nothing compared to what my family had sacrificed.
I stood tall and smeared the tears from my cheeks, pushing every thought but one from my mind. The reason I was there: Mom’s life.
I splashed cold water over my face and head and dried them with a washcloth. By the time I’d finished, Austin was done adjusting a large wire frame on an articulating arm above the medical chair I’d seen
You sure about this, Nyah?
In answer, I reached behind me, grabbed a handful of hair, and scissored it off my head. The hair hung limp in my hand, black with a thick streak of fading purple running through the middle of it. I turned my hand over and watched it fall to the floor.
Snip. Another clump fell away.
Then another and another . . . until my hair covered the floor around my feet like dark straw. Austin returned with electric clippers, a can of shaving cream, a hand towel and a razor. He tapped the seat back with the clippers. “Ready?”
I nodded. “Chop, chop. Let’s do this.”
He placed one hand on my head to steady it and turned on the clippers.
“Wait,” I said. “I have a scar. From the accident. Don’t freak out, all right?”
He paused. “I won’t.”
Drawing a deep breath, I watched our reflections in the window as he pressed the clippers to the base of my skull and slowly mowed a path to the top of my head then along my scalp. The vibration buzzed against the bone, and long sheaves of hair cascaded to the floor, leaving exposed skin that felt cold.
He worked quickly, adjusting the clippers closer to my skin with each pass before finally slathering my scalp with shaving cream and running a razor over it in long streaks—periodically wiping the blade on the towel—until my head was as bald as his.
Austin rubbed my head with the towel, like polishing a bowling ball, and stepped back. He said, “Welcome to the Bald and Beautiful Club.”
I lifted my hand and ran my palm over my scalp, wincing when it reached the ragged scar. My head reminded me of my dad’s freshly shaven face.
“There’s a bathroom down the hall, on the left,” he said. “Go rinse your head before we mark the locations for the TAP. When you’re done, meet me over there.” He pointed to a nearby contraption that resembled a dental chair.
I stood and brushed hair off my shirt and pants.
“Take as much time as you need,” he said. “I’ll get everything ready.”
I walked down the hall, rubbing my scalp. It felt as though a portion of myself had been cut away, and I would never get it back. My hair had been a part of my identity: Nyah, the girl with the nose ring and funky hair. It had also covered the memento of the most horrible thing that’d ever happened to me. It was a part of my mask, I guess. Now it was gone, years of growth and care sliced away in less time than it took to brush it in the morning.
Emotion had churned inside me while Austin was shaving my head, but it didn’t turn into a tsunami until I saw myself up close in the bathroom mirror. I didn’t want to cry, but the tears came anyway, so I let them. They slipped down my cheeks while my fingertips drifted along the newly sensitive skin. My hair would grow back, but Nyah Parks as I knew her—as Mom and Dad and Tommy had known her—had departed and someone new was looking back at me.
But maybe, I thought, she wasn’t a stranger, after all. Maybe she was a truer picture of the desperation I felt in the deepest part of me—exposed, no longer able to hide the scars and imperfections, now dragged into the light for all to see.
My fingertips lingered along the eight-inch scar that ran along the right side of my skull, front to back. Besides a broken arm, the deep gouge was the only injury I’d suffered in the accident that had claimed the rest of my family, the result of my head shattering one of the back windows. It’d taken forty-eight stitches, eighteen staples, and skin from my thigh to patch up my scalp. Nothing compared to what my family had sacrificed.
I stood tall and smeared the tears from my cheeks, pushing every thought but one from my mind. The reason I was there: Mom’s life.
I splashed cold water over my face and head and dried them with a washcloth. By the time I’d finished, Austin was done adjusting a large wire frame on an articulating arm above the medical chair I’d seen
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