Mom told me she will do it

Well, here I sit waiting for mother. For the first time the bathroom seems larger than ever. She has told me more times than I can remember, “Do NOT put your hair in your mouth. If you continue to eat your hair I will be forced to cut it OFF,” she commanded in her strong but motherly voice.
I’ve been doing it for so long and nothing was done to me, so why now? Looking up from where I was sitting I saw mom bring a tall stool. She placed it in front of the large mirror across the wall of the bathroom sink and counter — the one everybody looked into when they brushed their hair or teeth. Even dad used it to watch himself when he shaved his face every morning.

Pointing to the stool she told me, “Get yourself comfortable, young lady. I will be back with the clippers.” She turned and walked out, going to her bedroom.

I climbed up on the stool, looking at myself in the mirror. I didn’t know if I would cry or not. I was loosely swinging my feet when I heard mother’s footsteps.

“Go back downstairs,” she called to someone.
The uncertainty was killing me. Was it my little brother, my big sister, or my dad? Whoever it was didn’t say a word, just turned around and went back downstairs.

She put down a black object on the counter and opened the medicine cabinet. A can came out first — the one dad got the white stuff from when he shaved his face — and she put it down in front of me. As she was closing the cabinet, she placed two small blue things next to the can. Looking at them again, dad called them a can of shaving cream and safety razors.

He used them to shave his face, and mom used them to shave her legs and underarms. Obviously, she was going to use them to shave me. But the question was… where was she going to shave me!?

Being 15, she must be going to show me how to shave my legs. The hair on them was getting dark and thick, and she had told me she would show me how to shave them when the hairs got that long. I didn’t have hair under my arms yet, so they would have to wait.

“Well, young lady… You were warned about chewing on your hair. Both your father and I told you and even begged you to stop doing it, but you continued with your obsession. I have told you hundreds of times what I would have to do if you didn’t stop,” she said as she plugged a cord into the wall.

“Maybe when your friends see you with a shaved head, you — and they — will probably learn.”

I looked at her, almost in tears, trying to tell her I wouldn’t do it again. When she turned the clippers on, I wanted to jump off the stool, but she was standing next to it, blocking my way out.

Would dad come to my rescue if I called him?

“John… John,” she called out to him. “Do you have anything to say to Annie before I shave her head?”

She waited. I waited for his reply. He stuck his head in as he walked past. He looked at me, shook his head, and told her, “Shave her head? You hadn’t mentioned that possibility to me when we talked about it. I thought that a simple short haircut would be enough. But well, maybe she’ll learn from that. Do it, honey, you have my approval,” and walked away.

I couldn’t believe it. My father did nothing. I was the spark in his eyes, his little princess — and he had given his approval for me to be transformed into a banal army recruit. Was I no longer his friend? Small tears formed in my eyes.

She placed her hand on the top of my head, making sure I was watching.

“You’re going to watch the whole thing — your hair being clipped off, your scalp being shaved, so your bare skin is visible to everyone. Then maybe you’ll remember not to eat your hair anymore when it grows back,” mom said.

I tried to turn my head, not to look, but before I could, she was pushing the clippers over the top of my head. She knew how to use them, because she cut my brother’s and dad’s hair with them. She never used them to cut mine or Sandi’s hair — only scissors, and just a few centimeters.

I couldn’t believe my mother was doing this to me. I would be BALD — bald like my grandfather. I wished I had never mocked my brother, telling him he’d look like grandpa someday.

Mother didn’t look at me; she kept her eyes on her task. My hair was falling to the floor, on me. It was falling from my head. She finished the right side and walked to the left. She put the clippers to work again, just like before.

Before I could cry, she had my head tilted down and was pushing the clippers up the back of my neck and head.

Once, I had thought about getting an undercut for summer, just to feel a bit cooler. I couldn’t believe that now I’d feel the breeze I once wanted — on my entire damn head.

After a few strokes she let go of my head and turned off the clippers, placing them on the counter. She brushed my head with her left hand — only with her hand, no comb. How long would it take before I used one again?

I looked at myself in the mirror. I wanted to cry. But it was too late — it was real, too short for my wishes, too real for my luck.

She picked up the can of shaving cream and sprayed a pile of it on the top of my head. She circled my head with the cream. When enough was on, she put the can down and started spreading it — in front of my ears, behind my ears, and down the back of my head and neck.

I looked like I had white hair, like my grandmother or those influencers I saw on Instagram with dyed silver hair. I started laughing for some reason at how I looked — I was too shocked. My hair, which a few minutes ago reached halfway down my torso, was about to be shaved off. I’d see skin on my head I never thought I’d see.

But my mom just looked at me in the mirror without saying a word. She picked up one of the razors and started shaving the back of my head and neck. As she shaved in short strokes, I thought about how different I would be from my friends now. They would joke and laugh about short haircuts, but none of them would ever do this. Why was my mother trying to kill my social life?

For sure now my chances with my crush, Tony, would drop to zero. I remember specifically one day they tried to make him say what his ideal girl would be like, but he only said what she wouldn’t be — and he said he didn’t like girls with short hair.

Would it still be possible for me to fit his ideal type, since I wouldn’t have short hair… but yes no hair at all?

Mom was now reaching over the top of my head, shaving backward from my face to the back of my head. I began to count the strokes of the razor — one, two, three… It took her ten strokes to shave the top of my head. Then she began shaving in the opposite direction, from the back of my head toward my face.

She definitely wanted to make me as bald as possible.

All that was left were the sides.

I was beginning to hate my haircut , well, even more than I already did. Not only because of what it meant to me, because my head was being shaved by my own mother, and everything that would come after.

The boredom and my mother’s patience while making my head totally smooth were testing my limits, but I didn’t want her to know it. Imagine if she decided to shave my eyebrows too, as punishment!

So, I put on a sad look — one of disappointment that she was doing this to me, her once favorite daughter.

It wasn’t hard; I truly felt my hair disappearing along with any desire to stop her. She began shaving behind my right ear, taking shorter strokes to catch every hair.

Would she show me how to shave my legs and underarms afterward, at least — since she was giving me a demostration of proper shaving technique?

The razor was now shaving the left side of my head.

Soon my head would be completely BALD.

No hair on my head to chew anymore, and no hair on my head to show off at school.

Oh, how would I explain this to everyone…

When she took the last stroke, she rinsed the razor under the faucet and wet her hand. She ran her wet hand over my head, stopping whenever she felt unshaven hairs. Quickly, she shaved the little hairs away. After doing this a few times, she put the razor to rest.

She spread a little aftershave liquid on my freshly shaved scalp. God, I felt every nerve ending burn on my tender skin.

She reached for a towel and began wiping my head of the leftover shaving cream.

“Ok… I hope you understand this was done for a reason. We got tired of telling you over and over not to chew your hair. This seems to be the only way to stop you from doing it. Maybe your sister will think twice before chewing on hers”, mom said, wiping her hands.

I sat there, looking at my ‘haircut’. The view only showed me the reflection of someone who looked like me.

I couldn’t believe how different and strange I looked. I felt like I was living in someone else’s body.

She stepped back and pointed to the door. “Go downstairs and show your sister, brother, and father. Ask them if I got your head smooth enough.”

Sliding off the stool, I looked at her with sad eyes. She started cleaning the counter as I walked out. I took a deep breath and went downstairs.

I don’t remember much of what happened next — my little brother’s crazy laughter, my sister laughing taking pictures with her camera’s flash, and my dad coming over to hug me and tell me I had been very brave.

In any other situation, I would have felt comforted by the warmth of his hug, but this time the moment ended when he rubbed my bald head.

I was about to cry when he said he had never felt anything so smooth in his life, and that I looked like my grandfather.

Damn it, I really was bald.

A couple of hours later…

Now I’m here, in my room, looking at the ceiling, thinking about how my classmates will react when I go back to school after the weekend. I’m so afraid and nervous.

I don’t want to call Gail and Susan to tell them something like “My mother gave me THE haircut she promised.”

But I know at some point I’ll have to tell them why my head was shaved. Gosh, it will be so embarrassing for me.

My time is running out. If only I had my hair to chew for my anxiety…