When I was young, my hair just kind of poofed all over the place. I have a picture from when I was two or three and my dad is holding me, snuggled up against his hip. I remember feeling so safe there, so protected. When your daddy holds you, no one can hurt you. My hair is overflowing, forming an orb around my head, tight dark curls that spill over my ears and press against my dad’s cheek. I lived in a world where two loving parents enveloped me in my bed every night, where safe, happy dreams licked at my eyelids and crept inside. When I woke up, I would sneak into my parents’ bedroom and hide under the covers by their feet. I would tug at their toes, tickle their ankles and giggle as I lay there. Then my parents would wake up and smother me in kisses. My unruly hair was this sphere of cells that burst forth from my scalp, eager to see the world, twisting gleefully about, springy and young and fresh. My father would hold me tight, whisper in my ear that I was his little girl. My mother would have me sit on the floor and gently coax my hair into submission, lovingly shaping the raw exuberance into careful, practical pigtails. Then my father would take me to breakfast, and my brother would come along, tugging at my pigtails as we ran around the bagel shop. So loved, so safe, so happy.

After my dad died, my hair became my enemy. I would yank a hair brush through it. Down, down, down! I would yell. How could it continue to spring and twist and curl while I fell and crumpled and hurt. The tight, warm walls of my home were gone -- the wind whipped fiercely at my face. Under the covers I’d go, to hide. But the covers’ fibers unravelled, leaving gaping holes through which the monsters could crawl. My dreams were nightmares now. I watched as my father sank into a pit of fire or was shoved off a cliff or was blown away by an acrid wind. I reached out to hold him, to save him, but my hands had lost their traction. I grabbed at my father’s hand, but his fingers were slick with his blood and I could not hold on. So he slipped away. And I, helpless, did nothing.

I went to school with hair slicked back, shoved under hats and pulled into tight, painful ponytails that would not bounce or twist or curl.

My hair began to shine again, eventually. The sun infused it with red streaks, and I tossed it about, aware of its power. Boys would notice it, tell me I was beautiful, run their fingers through my curls. But still, my bed was not safe, the walls of my house were weak. My hair became a mask. It stole my energy and served as a barrier to shield my emptiness from the rest of the world. No one could ever see through my disguise -- no one cared enough to peel back the layers and see me: raw, scarred, and terrified.

Impulsively, I grab a pair of scissors. A careful, unnoticeable snip. Then, I grab a chunk, hacking at the strands of hair -- the healthy, glowing strands that push out from my anaemic scalp. I grab an electric razor. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. I look at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. The entire left side of my head is bald. My scalp peeks out. Pale white. Scared. I smile.