Hair is usually one of the most important features of a female.  Commercial advertisements flaunt what the definition of beauty is: long, delicate, silky, luscious, springy locks of hair.  This, on top of the incredible amount of “skin-beauty” standards that are set, targeted specifically at teenage girls.  Starting at an early age of thirteen, it only made sense that I needed to fulfill the Hollywood To-do list that was blasted at me from all angles.  I was one more victim of false advertising and false beauty.

The media had mesmerized me in so many aspects, most of which was subliminal.  Hair had always been such a high priority for me.  I would wake up at five o’clock in the morning just so I could curl my hair just right.  Brainwashed with improved hair machines and techniques, I invested more money with every new product available.  My self-esteem had been low since the beginning due to recurring traumas, yet every commercial could manage to pull out another flaw of mine. 

This state of mind went on for a solid two full years.  Every morning I would wake up at five o’clock.  Every morning I would do something “beautiful” to my hair.  Whether I put it in a french braid, tight curls, loose waves, braided bun, fishtail braid, or part-way up with a bow, there was always something that could make me look better than other girls.  My head was so high in the clouds, when my best friend at the time was diagnosed with cancer, I was appalled and greatly offended when she mentioned something to the extent of me shaving my head to support her.  Greedy and pompous would be good words to describe me.  But all I could think about was trying to be the most beautiful, no matter far I had to go. 

A lot of trauma occurred during this obsession over my appearance.  Obviously, the mistreatment only pushed me deeper into my hole of insecurity.  Along the way, I was admitted at St. Elizabeth’s Hospital for suicide attempts, eating disorders, and self-harm.  Each time I refused to be seen without makeup.  I was astounded that I wasn’t allowed to bring any hair products or hair utensils.  I was naked. Counselors could not get through to me.  My dad could not get through to me.  I was living life by my definitions of love and beauty.          

After a long hospitalization in April of 2014, I was sent to a long- term day treatment program for at-risk teenage girls.  There I learned to respect myself for who I am.  What random people thought of me didn’t matter.  They didn’t know what kind of warrior I was.  They didn’t know how much I have experienced in life.  I managed to be alive.  I can function.  I can breathe.  I can think.  Everything I tried to rob myself of, I have been given a second chance.  It took me a while to realize that, but it happened. 

In July of this past year, while attending day treatment, I learned I did not need to create a fake persona for myself.  The makeup might have made me feel attractive, but I would rather find people who can look past that.  As for the hair, one of my closer friends at treatment had encouraged me to cut it off.  At first, I was visibly hesitant, but after a few days, I was onboard.   I set up an appointment and that Wednesday I went in. 

My hair was a silky, deep chestnut brown that lined up with my lower back.  I remember it smelled like coconut oil, my favorite scent.  My locks swished gently behind me as I approached the registration area.  I felt tense so I twirled the ends of my hair in infinity loops.  My hair smoothly slipped from finger to finger.  Sometimes I used that as a coping mechanism.  Allie, my stylist, came over with a bright broad smile.  She was very excited for me.  We went over to the washing area.  I leaned back and closed my eyes.  That would be the last time in many years that I would have twenty inches of hair washed.  The water was warm, almost in a reassuring way.  The trickling toasty water dripped into the sink providing my personal white noise cd.  Allie then massaged shampoo on my scalp followed by creamy conditioner.  At one point I accidentally got a tad bit of conditioner in my mouth.  The conditioner tasted like a mixture of paint, plastic, and strong soap.  Not exactly the concoction I was looking for.  Once all rinsed, she wrapped my hair snug in a towel and we went to her station.

I looked Allie square in the eye and said, “Cut it all of.”  I had been going to her some time, so we had a bond. She was giddy and ready for action.  I took one last look in the mirror then said, “I’m ready.”  Allie snatched up a pair of scissors and snipped away.  The blade of the scissors was cold, colder than I cared to have on my skin.  But, this would be worth it.  With each glob of hair the was cut from my head, I felt lighter.  I felt relief.  Almost as though I wasn’t carrying any burdens anymore.  Finally, she had finished.  It was my turn to look in the mirror.

Allie slowly spun my chair around so that I was facing the full-length mirror.  My eyes locked with the eyes of mine in the mirror.  I felt free.  I looked free.  Steamy tears curled over my lower eye line and drizzled down my soft cheek.  I was speechless, in a good way, for the first time of my life.  I felt beautiful.  Not because I had a head full of bouncy curls or a face caked with layers of makeup.  I genuinely felt as though I was beautiful just for who I was. 

Since that day, my self-esteem has skyrocketed.  I can go out in public looking like I’m homeless without being self-conscious.  I can go out in public looking like I’m a model without being self-conscious.  I can be whoever I want to be and feel gorgeous inside and out.  Do I miss the smell of coconut oil drifting around me? Yes.  But if I have to ask myself if losing the scent was worth it or not, I would one hundred percent say that the enormous step I took toward recovery was worth it entirely.  Who knew that all your burdens could be cut off with one slash of a blade?