Winner of the 2024 Q1 District 6 Writing Contest.
I stand on a wobbly wooden chair that scrapes against the bathroom’s tiled floor. The chair itself has a patterned cushion that slides slightly under my shoes. Light pours in from the window and reflects into my determined gaze.
In my hands, I hold a pair of scissors clumsily. I stare at my reflection in the mirror giving myself a mental pep talk before I make the first cut. The sound of the scissors closing around my hair is crisp and sharp. Stray locks of hair fall gently onto the chair, coating the Velcro straps on my pink shoes. Bangs, short and beautiful cover my forehead. Many layers, short and beautiful, shot out of my skull. A drumming sounds at the door and I flounder trying to not stab myself.
“Why’s the door locked?” My mom demands as I make eye contact with myself in the mirror.
“There was a burglar.” I reply climbing off of the chair, its scraping against the tile floor echoes in the small space. The TV in the living room murmurs background music to a soothing voice over, an uninteresting medication commercial.
She twists the handle once more, “Open this door or so help me,” her tone leaving no room for argument.
I begin gathering the evidence, picking up the fallen hairs. “Is the burglar gone?” I ask as I throw a handful into the toilet and wipe my hand against my pants.
“There is no burglar; if you don’t open this door by the time I count to five you’ll be gettin’ a spankin'.” Her voice is hoarse as she flies into a coughing fit.
I flush quickly and throw the scissors into the trash; I open the door on four, smiling at her in triumph. Her face is colored in the red of her frustration.
“What. Did. You. Do?” the words come out of her slow and measured.
“What?” I look down noticing the hair that is still clinging to my shoes. The smoke on her breath makes me cower away.
“What is this?” Her voice is louder as she grabs my cheeks and runs her hand through my now much shorter hair.
“He stole it, Mom.” I lie matter-of-factly.
Her brow furrows, her mouth hangs, “What?” She asks, inhaling deeply while closing her eyes.
“The burglar.” I pointed past her frame toward the kitchen. The TV in the living room is blaring the news. Three new home invasions this week in the metro area the anchor says.
Her eyes narrow, “The burglar…stole your hair?” her lip twitches into a grimace.
I nod resolutely.
I stand on a wobbly wooden chair that scrapes against the bathroom’s tiled floor. The chair itself has a patterned cushion that slides slightly under my shoes. Light pours in from the window and reflects into my determined gaze.
In my hands, I hold a pair of scissors clumsily. I stare at my reflection in the mirror giving myself a mental pep talk before I make the first cut. The sound of the scissors closing around my hair is crisp and sharp. Stray locks of hair fall gently onto the chair, coating the Velcro straps on my pink shoes. Bangs, short and beautiful cover my forehead. Many layers, short and beautiful, shot out of my skull. A drumming sounds at the door and I flounder trying to not stab myself.
“Why’s the door locked?” My mom demands as I make eye contact with myself in the mirror.
“There was a burglar.” I reply climbing off of the chair, its scraping against the tile floor echoes in the small space. The TV in the living room murmurs background music to a soothing voice over, an uninteresting medication commercial.
She twists the handle once more, “Open this door or so help me,” her tone leaving no room for argument.
I begin gathering the evidence, picking up the fallen hairs. “Is the burglar gone?” I ask as I throw a handful into the toilet and wipe my hand against my pants.
“There is no burglar; if you don’t open this door by the time I count to five you’ll be gettin’ a spankin'.” Her voice is hoarse as she flies into a coughing fit.
I flush quickly and throw the scissors into the trash; I open the door on four, smiling at her in triumph. Her face is colored in the red of her frustration.
“What. Did. You. Do?” the words come out of her slow and measured.
“What?” I look down noticing the hair that is still clinging to my shoes. The smoke on her breath makes me cower away.
“What is this?” Her voice is louder as she grabs my cheeks and runs her hand through my now much shorter hair.
“He stole it, Mom.” I lie matter-of-factly.
Her brow furrows, her mouth hangs, “What?” She asks, inhaling deeply while closing her eyes.
“The burglar.” I pointed past her frame toward the kitchen. The TV in the living room is blaring the news. Three new home invasions this week in the metro area the anchor says.
Her eyes narrow, “The burglar…stole your hair?” her lip twitches into a grimace.
I nod resolutely.