I stare into the mirror, my face that of a stranger. It has been six short weeks since I last looked in the mirror. Six long weeks that we lived in the Circle. Six weeks to divide my life into Before and After. “So, Hun, whaddaya wanna do today?” the stylist asks, her voice slurred by the huge wad of gum in her mouth. The hard mustard leather salon chair digs into my back and I look at the hundreds of pictures of smiling models in various hairdos adorning the walls, each begging to be chosen. I never thought I would have this choice again. Never believed I could wear something besides the uniform gingham dress that the Master himself had designed for us girls. Actually, I had never imagined that I would spend my last year of middle school in a cult to begin with. While my old classmates were sharing whispered giggles about which brand-name sweaters our teachers had on, I was hoping I wouldn’t be married off to one of the Master’s ardent followers for at least another year. Hiding my shallow novels underneath the books of meditation and philosophy prescribed by the Master. Being bullied that my family was not zealous enough to burn all of our pictures of our life before the Circle, like the others had done. “Sweetheart, don’t be afraid. Do something you like. He can’t see you now.” My mother’s hand is warm on my shoulder and I reach up to cover her hand with mine. My mother- the woman who had been ensnared by the Master’s lies and had uprooted herself and me to go live in the Circle. Yet also the woman who defended me when I was found guilty for my delving mind. “She asks too many questions. She must be taught that blind faith in the Master is the only way,” my teacher disapproved. My mother- who was willing to admit her mistakes and pull us out before it was too late. “Ya worried about some guy’s opinion on yer hair?” The stylist winks as if she’s in on the secret. “Trust me, wear what ya love and it’ll look good.” Her face is close to mine and she smells of hair spray and cotton candy. The Master can’t see the sins I am committing. A surge of adrenaline grips my heart and I feel especially rebellious. “Short with the ends curled out.” I say firmly. You’ll look like Betty Boop! It’s not the 1950’s for goodness sake, the girl in the mirror with the two long braids protests. And? You’ve got a problem with that? I glare defiantly at her. It’s my hair and I can do whatever the heck I want with it. I taste excitement mixed with fear in the air. Drops of mist cover my hair and I feel a comb being pulled tightly through my long hair. Pull, twist, clip. Pull, twist, clip. The stylist goes through the motions with a familiarity of something done several times daily. She pulls out her scissors from her hunter green canvas apron, and they glisten under the soft bulbs above the mirror. Snip, snip. My ties to The Circle being cut forever. I grip the edge of my chair, a loose spring digging into my palm, the panic slowly rising in my chest. No, this is okay. I am not doing anything wrong. I watch, my stomach twisting painfully as the blonde locks float down, slowly concealing the black and white checked tiles. But what would the master say? The familiar voice of my close friend, the Master’s daughter, rebukes me. She has settled in a corner of my mind to observe my treachery and is shaking her head at me sadly in disappointment. It doesn’t matter, the Master is not here. He’s just the psychopathic leader of a cult anyways. My hands tighten and a sharp pain cuts into the heel of my palm. Never speak of The Master in such a disrespectful manner! My friend’s voice rises in indignation. I shut my eyes tightly and try to block out the voices. Deep down I know the truth. “All done!” The stylist says in her perky voice. She pats me patronizingly on the shoulder and I slide down from the chair, stepping into my fallen hair covering the slippery floor. Those locks- a part of me, something treasured, and here I am leaving them strewn across the floor. Moving on. I smile, and together we walk out into the busy mall towards Walmart, passing brightly dressed people in clusters. And they never give a second glance at the mother and daughter out shopping on an ordinary Sunday morning.
“So, Hun, whaddaya wanna do today?” the stylist asks, her voice slurred by the huge wad of gum in her mouth. The hard mustard leather salon chair digs into my back and I look at the hundreds of pictures of smiling models in various hairdos adorning the walls, each begging to be chosen. I never thought I would have this choice again. Never believed I could wear something besides the uniform gingham dress that the Master himself had designed for us girls.
Actually, I had never imagined that I would spend my last year of middle school in a cult to begin with. While my old classmates were sharing whispered giggles about which brand-name sweaters our teachers had on, I was hoping I wouldn’t be married off to one of the Master’s ardent followers for at least another year. Hiding my shallow novels underneath the books of meditation and philosophy prescribed by the Master. Being bullied that my family was not zealous enough to burn all of our pictures of our life before the Circle, like the others had done.
“Sweetheart, don’t be afraid. Do something you like. He can’t see you now.” My mother’s hand is warm on my shoulder and I reach up to cover her hand with mine. My mother- the woman who had been ensnared by the Master’s lies and had uprooted herself and me to go live in the Circle. Yet also the woman who defended me when I was found guilty for my delving mind. “She asks too many questions. She must be taught that blind faith in the Master is the only way,” my teacher disapproved. My mother- who was willing to admit her mistakes and pull us out before it was too late.
“Ya worried about some guy’s opinion on yer hair?” The stylist winks as if she’s in on the secret. “Trust me, wear what ya love and it’ll look good.” Her face is close to mine and she smells of hair spray and cotton candy.
The Master can’t see the sins I am committing. A surge of adrenaline grips my heart and I feel especially rebellious.
“Short with the ends curled out.” I say firmly.
You’ll look like Betty Boop! It’s not the 1950’s for goodness sake, the girl in the mirror with the two long braids protests.
And? You’ve got a problem with that? I glare defiantly at her. It’s my hair and I can do whatever the heck I want with it. I taste excitement mixed with fear in the air.
Drops of mist cover my hair and I feel a comb being pulled tightly through my long hair. Pull, twist, clip. Pull, twist, clip. The stylist goes through the motions with a familiarity of something done several times daily. She pulls out her scissors from her hunter green canvas apron, and they glisten under the soft bulbs above the mirror.
Snip, snip. My ties to The Circle being cut forever. I grip the edge of my chair, a loose spring digging into my palm, the panic slowly rising in my chest. No, this is okay. I am not doing anything wrong. I watch, my stomach twisting painfully as the blonde locks float down, slowly concealing the black and white checked tiles.
But what would the master say? The familiar voice of my close friend, the Master’s daughter, rebukes me. She has settled in a corner of my mind to observe my treachery and is shaking her head at me sadly in disappointment.
It doesn’t matter, the Master is not here. He’s just the psychopathic leader of a cult anyways. My hands tighten and a sharp pain cuts into the heel of my palm.
Never speak of The Master in such a disrespectful manner! My friend’s voice rises in indignation.
I shut my eyes tightly and try to block out the voices. Deep down I know the truth.
“All done!” The stylist says in her perky voice. She pats me patronizingly on the shoulder and I slide down from the chair, stepping into my fallen hair covering the slippery floor. Those locks- a part of me, something treasured, and here I am leaving them strewn across the floor. Moving on.
I smile, and together we walk out into the busy mall towards Walmart, passing brightly dressed people in clusters. And they never give a second glance at the mother and daughter out shopping on an ordinary Sunday morning.