Haircut

I am at my grandma’s. Sitting on the same wooden chair, next to the same leopard sofa as I have always had.

I am 20 years old, and I am getting a haircut.

For all the times I had gotten a haircut in this exact place the view had never changed. I am always looking at the door on the other side of the room. The one with a picture of a garden on it. The stairs are always leading to the side, only the person in the mirror has changed over the years. I have sat here at 5 years old, dreading getting my hair cut because I wanted it long like Rapunzel’s. At that time I didn’t care about what people thought of my haircut. I wanted it long, nothing more mattered. Looking at the same door with the same picture of a garden on it, back then the colors were more vibrant, as were the people around me. My two grandmas’ hairs still had color in it and I knew about the only haircuts my friends have ever had.

It’s the same chair I sat in at 12 years old, sitting as still as possible as blue dye was being put on the tips of my hair. That haircut and I got along great. That haircut was confident, that haircut was bold. That haircut liked to experiment by having all my hair tied into tiny little braids, even the colors of the tips changed every few weeks. That haircut met new people whose first haircut I didn’t know, but I would know every new one that would follow. It’s the same room where a few years later I decided to chop most of my hair off. That haircut wouldn’t have gotten along with my first one. That haircut wished to have the boldness of blue tips again, but unlike Rapunzel that haircut cared about what other people thought. Most of the time the shoulder-length cut hid behind dark clothes and never spoke up. That haircut didn’t fit me very well and will not be repeated.

I am 20 years old, and I am getting a haircut. Sitting in the same room, on the same wooden chair, next to the same leopard sofa as I have always had. I am looking at the same door, with the same picture of a garden on it. My hair is still shorter than Rapunzel’s but longer than my shoulder. Instead of blue tips I have golden highlights. This haircut feels new even though it has been with me for a while. My grandma’s hair is gray, my other grandma had left the room last November. I have friends who have seen all my haircuts and I have friends who only know my latest one. Friends whose current haircuts I no longer know, but I could tell you in detail how their hair looked three years ago.
I am watching the scissors cut my hair in the same mirror I have looked in with every haircut I have ever had. In the same room, on the same wooden chair next to the leopard sofa. With the same door and the picture of a garden.

I am 20 years old, and I am getting my hair cut.