Sever
A personal essay by Anya Ramzi
Illustration by Cindy Ren
M
y mother’s frown is brittle. Her hovering is making the hairstylist nervous, I can tell. She offers my mother a coffee in another room. My mother’s eyes track the tiny silver scissors, the sizzling straightener, and the array of thickly-scented styling products. Polite and cool, my mother says, “No, thank you.” “Mom doesn’t approve, then?” the hairstylist jests, her voice a little high-pitched. But the joke falls flat in the strained silence between us. “Right,” she mutters, shaking her head and grabbing the straightener. She begins to chatter as she splits my hair into sections and scorches each into obedience. I can feel her relax into her routine: her deft, thin fingers pulling and pinching and burning. She talks about her two dogs, the week of pleasant weather we’ve been having, and how much she loves the Shake Shack down the street. I appreciate the effort. She must sense the anxiety building in me, climbing my spine and seizing my shoulders, leaving me wide-eyed and frozen in the mirror. In the reflection, I watch as the hairstylist rifles through a drawer, pushing a pair of scissors aside in favor of picking up a pile of hairbands. It is easier to focus on her actions (quick, loud, sure). It is easier not to look at myself. When she ties the first hairband, I swallow. Her
hands, pale and manicured, lack the warmth of my mother’s. They braid with efficiency and precision, tying the second band an inch from the ends of my hair. “Cutting two feet of hair!” she exclaims. “That’s incredible.” “Yeah,” I say awkwardly. “Thanks.” “You ready?” I nod, and the world narrows down to the chink-squeak-chink of the scissors sawing their way through my braid. I can see my own eyes widen in the mirror. There’s a last bit of resistance, and then—then— My shortened hair springs free from where the bands have been severed, swishing around my shoulders. My god! It’s so light! A part of me squeals. I feel vaguely dizzy, grinning. My mother is saying something—the hairstylist is passing her my cut braid, now a limp, dead thing, to be wrapped in plastic and donated—but all I can hear is a faint buzzing in my ears. The hairstylist continues to press and snip and pull. I watch it all in the mirror, the tension leaking out of me, leaving a pleasant, tipsy sensation. When she is finished, I have been born anew. I remove the towel from my shoulders. I cannot stop smiling. Somewhere beside me, my mother is watching intently. Her hands grasp the bag now weighed down with my braid. She is bristling
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