The Last Time I Ask

My hair was the only thing I used to like about myself.

I was unemployed, severely depressed, and utterly miserable living with a mother who seemed to be anxiously awaiting my departure for when I graduated high-school.

Doubled my antidepressants.

I applied to every possible job application and awkwardly handed my resume to employers who appeared to be shaking death’s hand given by their exhausted expression.

No matter how many times I tried to explain to my mother that it was not from a lack of effort or my ‘laziness’ that I had not gotten a job offer.

She didn’t believe me, she was adamant that I got a job, resulting in every day for months on end having every conversation end in an argument about how I am jobless and that if I got off my lazy ass, I wouldn’t be whining and depressed all the time.

I doubled my antidepressant again, still, nothing seemed to help me manage my stress of nearly debilitating sadness.

I finally got a call back, I excitedly replied within the hour, answered every question to the best of my ability and hopefully expected a job offer.

Maybe my mother would finally stop being so angry at me.

Nothing.

Back to square one.

I search for more jobs, but everything sinks in all at once.

My grades slipped, my meds seemed to do nothing to fend off the loneliness, and my mother was just as furious with me constantly as she had been before.

Sometimes, we would talk, and I would think things could get better between us. Then I would ask her if I could get a haircut as I looked fucking dreadful after having neglected taking care of my hair well due to my constant mental and emotional drainage.

The answer was always, “Get a job, then you can do whatever the hell you want.”

Months passed and I was still actively seeking work, debated doing work online no matter what it was just to get money — but my mother insisted I get a job in person.

One night, I finally opened up to a peer. I explained that I had not gotten a haircut in months and my mother refused to let me get one until I got a job.

She sarcastically told me: “That’s healthy parenting.”

I realized then, it wasn’t.

I got home, having hidden crying from my mother yet again as I knew she would have a cow if she realized I had cried about something yet again.

She heads to bed without saying a word to me.

I tell her I love her, but she doesn’t respond.

Even if she did say it — I knew she wouldn’t have meant it.

I take a shower for an hour, mulling over in the scalding water what I had done to be such a burden in her life.

I get out of the shower, droplets still falling off of the ends of my hair.

I realized I couldn’t take it anymore.

A towel a few days used was good enough to scratch and dry off most of my hair before I found a pair of black crusted scissors in my bedroom drawer.

I placed toilet paper over the sink — my plan to easily dispose of the evidence so I didn’t infuriate her further.

Snip.

Krch.

Snip.

I cut off piece after piece after piece after piece of my hair.

Ugly, uneven, near stripped cuts of my hair of all different lengths and textures despite me trying to even it out.

When the sink was full of snippets and locks of hair — I stopped.

I placed the scissors down and looked in the mirror.

I was fucking ugly, but finally, I did something to help myself.

I’d never ask for help from her again, if I needed something — I would do it on my own.

I used to love my hair, now it is jagged and hideous. But for once I did something myself that I can look back on and be proud that I did, I don’t need to be ridiculed by her anymore.