It's odd to have hair. I can see it even when I'm not looking in a mirror. One tendril shoots striaght from the side of my head even and then curls conspiciously into view next to my eye. I can feel my bangs creep down my face ever closer to my eyebrows as I shake my bushy mane all over the back of ny neck. Like the rest of me, it is rebellious and stubborn, choosing to be unique and unattractive rather than conform at any cost. Much like my thighs, grey elbows, or pouty stomach, it demands to be seen.
Flashing back to Middle School and the insecurity accompanied by such length, my hands unconsciously reach for the scissors. But like everything that happens in my life I resist for a time and just hope this time it will be different. Things will change. I'll be different. It will be different. Things will be better, we just needed time.
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