Hot summer day early in the morning as soon as the salon opens, July 11, 2021. My mind is made up. A cup that has been preventing the urge to cut off all my hair finally overflows. Hair being blown constantly in my face. Drip. Seeing an amazing photo of someone with short hair. Drip. My hair is a mane of tangles in the morning. Drip. People telling me not to. Drip. The hot summer heat makes my hair roasting. Drip. My hair is always getting caught in sweatshirts. Drip. My hair is always shedding everywhere. Drip. The cup once empty, now overflowing. 

The bell chimes as I open the door, the smell of salon products and chemicals encase my senses. The sounds of clipping hair, hair dryers and the murmur of people talking stand out distinctly. There is still time to turn back, but I keep my feet rooted to the spot. The hair stylist calls my name as I stand up. Thoughts racing, my mind a jumble of words and anxiety. 

I sit down and the hair cape covers me as if I’m prepping for surgery. She takes out the hair clippers, the tool, the extension of herself, her paintbrush. There is still time to turn back, but something tells me no. I hear the buzzer near my head. A thousand thoughts race through my head.

What if I don't like it? There is no turning back. What if it looks weird on my face? What if everyone else doesn’t like it? What if I can’t figure out how to style it? What if I look like everyone else? What if people don’t recognize me? Why am I doing this now? I firmly tell myself to stay put as I lock eyes with myself in the mirror.

The smell of salon products fills my nose. I feel the leather chair, the hair cape, the stylist’s hands on my head. I see the reflective glass surface and anxious glint in my eyes. I feel my knuckles turning white as I hold tightly onto the chair. My hair is like a canvas for an artist, the stylist’s blankslate. The buzz of a hair clipper fills my senses. This is the artist’s paint brush, the tool of a craftsman. Closer, closer and closer it comes. The machinery sounds flood me with a wave of apprehension. The clippers make contact with the side of my head. The weight falling off my head relieves the weight of my shoulders. Watching the dead pieces of me fall on the floor. Once so attached, now they have lost their purpose.

The locks I once treasured, released. With each swipe of the clippers more and more of my old identity shedding. I now understood the feeling of dead weight. A weight weighing you down so much that you cannot notice until after. With each swipe of the clippers, the more weight falls off and the lighter I become. 

The locks of hair fall to the floor, pieces that gave me a sense of identity are now useless then cast aside. They pile up on the floor as I look down in shock. Shock and the feeling of pride, quickly replaced with anxiety. 

Hesitantly I look up to the mirror, a piece of art stares back. Things I have never seen before stares back. My eyes, bright and clear, show a gleam of triumph. My head looks a different shape, I barely recognize the person I spend every moment with. My nose, my jawline, my cheeks haven't seen the light of day in weeks. They now shine brilliantly. A new self awakening has started. Hair once used as a curtain to hide now has finally opened, never to be closed again. A new play has started, the one of self discovery. 

“Ok, it’s done,” the stylist exclaims. 

She beams at me in the mirror.

“Do you like it?” she asks clearly, very proud.

“It’s perfect,” I manage to say. “It’s everything I could've asked for.” I stare at myself, completely enthralled by my new appearance. 

The weight off my head, the weight off my shoulders leaves me feeling light. I watch as the rest of my broken identity is cast aside. I stare at the ground as my hair is removed, just like a snake has to shed its skin, a bird has to break free from an egg, I must break free from my cage. The cage of beauty standards encasing me and strangling, like poison vines squeezing the life out of young children. The vines that once had a strong hold now lose their grip and slink away into the shadows. 

The feeling of freedom, the feeling of pride, the feeling of beauty, the feeling of astonishment blend together into a feeling of yellow. I have never been interested before in cosmetology but now the thought slowly nags at the back of my mind. Through a turn of events, and a whole lot of luck, I found myself at a salon I never dreamed of working at. Worn faces leave sparkling. Tired eyes looking refreshed. I assist the process from start to finish to all to see the look of people’s eyes in the mirrors I walk past. All experiencing what I call yellow. Their eyes are falling in love with themselves all over again and I’m there to witness it. 

Beauty has no shape, beauty has not one form, beauty is what the world yearns for, yet it's right there all along.