I haven’t let another person cut my hair in four years. Bangs, layers, a fringe, a bob, I have been my own hairdresser. With only me, a mirror, and scissors in hand, I enjoy having complete control over my appearance. Cutting my hair is liberating; it’s like removing dead weight off my shoulders. Messing up isn’t a concern, as I know my hair will grow back. I am proud of the freedom I have with my hair, but I haven’t always been this way.
In traditional Quechua culture, women have long, braided hair. One braid indicates that a woman is single, while two means she is married. Growing up surrounded by women who kept their hair long, I desperately wanted to stand out but was too afraid to break tradition. I love my Quechua heritage, but as a young girl, I thought it was silly to have braids when I wasn’t even allowed to date. Why did it matter if others knew I was single?
Eventually, my parents agreed to let me cut my hair, and for a moment I’d been looking forward to for so long, I wanted to be the one to do it. Like every time I’ve cut my hair since then, I felt like a new person. Looking back to who I was then and who I am now, I know 12 year old me would think I look cool, and she’s the only person I want to impress.