The first snip echoed through the quiet bathroom, louder than I expected. A long strand of hair fell to the counter, curling against the surface like it belonged there. I froze, scissors trembling, and stared at the girl in the mirror. My breath caught as I took in the mess I’d already made of my hair, but there was no going back now.
Behind my reflection, the mirror wasn’t just a mirror–it was a canvas, covered in affirmations Mom had written with colorful Expo markers. Pink, teal, yellow, and purple words overlapped in a chaotic but deliberate mosaic.
You are enough.
You are worthy of happiness.
You are beautiful inside and out.
Those words had been there for months, showing up one day during one of the hardest times of my life. Back then, I was too depressed to believe them. Any time I looked in the mirror, I couldn’t see anything beautiful staring back. The affirmations felt more like distant hopes than truths, and I avoided meeting my gaze in that mirror out of fear that my reflection would confirm my worst thoughts about myself.
But something about this night was different. The air smelled faintly of lavender soap and hairspray, and Fleetwood Mac hummed softly from my phone. The warm, golden light of the vanity bulbs felt oddly comforting like the room was cheering me on. I wasn’t just looking at my reflection anymore, I was changing it.
I made another cut and another. Heavy, lifeless strands slowly fell away, leaving soft, curtain-like bangs grazing my cheekbones. They weren’t perfect—longer on one side, a little
jagged on the ends—but they felt like freedom. I didn’t mind looking at the girl in the mirror. For the first time in months
She wasn’t perfect, but she was trying.
My hands shook as I smoothed the edges of my bangs, the scissors resting on the counter amid the scattered remnants of what I was leaving behind. They say hair holds memories, that it carries the energy of the moments we’ve lived. Standing there, I wondered what I was shedding along with it.
Suddenly, the affirmations written on the mirror didn’t feel like lies. “You are strong.” I believe it now. “You are worthy of happiness.” Maybe I am. Mom’s words, written so long ago for a version of me that couldn’t hear them, finally felt like they were speaking to the person I was becoming.
Something shifted that night. It wasn’t just the way I looked—though the bangs framed my face in a way that felt fresh and bold—but the way I felt. The simple act of cutting my hair, of taking control of something so small yet so personal, sparked something in me. Confidence. Curiosity. A quiet bravery I hadn’t known I possessed.
The world outside that bathroom seemed to change with me. The music felt richer, deeper as if Fleetwood Mac and Bowie had always been waiting for me to hear them like this. Art called to me louder, colors and shapes drawing me back to the sketchbook I hadn’t touched in months. Lines flowed from my pencil effortlessly, as if the scissors had unlocked more than just a new look.
Before the bangs, I didn’t know who I was. I’d felt stuck, burdened by a sense of helplessness, unsure how to move forward. Cutting my bangs wasn’t just an impulsive
decision—it was a declaration, a line in the sand between the person I had been and the person I was ready to become.
But was it really the bangs? Or was it the act of change itself, the bravery to snip away at something old and see what lay beneath? Maybe it was the affirmations finally taking root, or the music wrapping itself around me, or the way the night seemed to hold its breath as I found a spark of something new.
I don’t have all the answers, and maybe that’s the point. As I stared at the girl in the mirror, the one with uneven bangs and a quiet smile, I felt something I hadn’t in a long time: hope.
They say hair holds memories, and maybe it does. Or maybe it’s the act of letting it go that matters most. Sometimes, change starts with the smallest step, the tiniest cut, and grows into something bigger than you ever imagined. Whatever the truth, that night, I stepped closer to myself—and that’s a feeling I’ll carry, even as my bangs inevitably grow back.
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