I hope I get hit by a bus.

Why didn't anyone tell me getting a haircut was this expensive? You would think they were performing some sort of hair implant surgery, but all I want is a change of style. Something different.

At this rate, I’m not so sure how far I can go. But it’ll all work out somehow. There are things I’ve always wanted to try, but because of one mental sabotage or the other, I convinced myself it wasn’t necessary. Like roller skating, getting a belly ring, kayaking. Or something mundane like going to the movies by myself. I always did go with Jenny.

It's always been a bad habit of mine, deeming an activity worthwhile based on who else is attending. I never went to my senior prom because of this same issue. No one cared enough to ask me, and my only friend opted out of going. So I figured there was no point.

But then I found out that she ended up attending, with a date of all things. She just didn't want me there as a third wheel.

I should have learned a lesson that day. Don't ever wait on anybody.

Time flows the same for everyone; use it wisely. That’s why I’ve decided to stop making excuses. If it’s a haircut I want, it’s a haircut I’ll get. I just have to figure out which one suits me best.

I hate to admit it, but I do look depressing. How can I put so little effort into my looks and hope for others to spare me attention. It’s like I abandoned my own self, threw my self-worth into the gutters. How can I expect others to care when I don’t even care for myself?

The mirror’s image of me is the one that was chewed up by my life’s circumstances and spat out, not the one I’ve always wanted to be. I look depleted, defeated, like I’ve been left behind. Which, I guess, I have. But the cloud of gloom over my head is a bit excessive. I didn’t even put up a fight.

I’ve seen old photos of my mother. She was beautiful, stylish, happy. It’s a shame she fell victim to her addiction. And a shame she fell for that useless ex-boyfriend of hers. But I’ve always pictured myself that chic, that outgoing. Picturesque. Effortlessly pretty.

Now I’m one step closer to making all that a reality.

___

I cut class a little early for my appointment at a salon ten minutes away. To say I’m nervous is an understatement. I can’t remember the last time I had a haircut; it’s been straight and long since I can remember. I wonder how different I’ll look. I wonder if the style will turn out good. I wonder if my hair will get botched. I wonder if this is a good idea.

I have to slap myself across the face to pull myself together. I’ve already made up my mind, no use going back now.

The salon is quite busy when I arrive, but they have my spot empty and ready to go. I plop down on the chair, fidgety, jittery, until my stylist comes along. She’s sweet through all the greetings, even when I show her the image of the style I want on myself.

“Are you sure that’s what you want, honey?” The stylist, which I’ve come to learn is named Daisy, asks. She chews on some piece of gum, and if I were any more desperate, I would have asked her for a stick, just to keep my mind at ease.

“I want something different.” I tell Daisy, trying to find calm.

She runs her fingers through my hair, all the way down my back. “Something different, huh. You mean a complete make-over?”

I nod, knowing she summarized what I’m trying to achieve perfectly. Daisy parts my hair in the middle, playing with it, scrutinizing my face. I guess this is what stylists do. Study your features for the best possible hairstyle.

And she seems to have finally found it. “Then why don’t you try this instead?” She shows me an image of a girl with wavy shoulder-length hair and curtain bangs. It looks effortless on her, its sheen blinding me through the screen. That’s definitely something different, alright.

So I go with the style, nervous and yet excited. This is what I should have done a long time ago. It feels a bit rewarding, relieving, that I’ve finally taken this step. That I’ve finally stopped cheating myself out of my own desires.

The long-awaited moment arrives, and Daisy spins my chair so I’m facing the mirror. When I open my eyes, I see it. The change I’ve always wanted. The leap I’ve always wanted to take, no matter how tiny. It’s here. I did it.

“So?” Daisy asks, almost as excited as I am. “What do you think?”

I smile. Wide. “I love it.”

___

I hate it. I hate, I hate, I hate it, I hate it.

I keep telling myself there’s nothing wrong with the hairstyle, but it’s not working. I can’t convince myself. Now I’m in front of the mirror once again, scrutinizing my face the way Daisy did earlier. Except, I’m quite sure I’m being way harsher on myself.

It’s not that bad. I just . . . I just need to add some pins here and there. Yeah, add a little razzle dazzle! Where the hell are those damn pins!

I find them under my sink, tucked away to the side, and begin applying as many as I can to my hair. I pin some locks back, pin some to the front, to the side, wherever. Then I study my face once again.

See? It’s not that bad.

I grit my teeth and take the pins out haphazardly. Maybe if I part it to the side? I do so, splitting my hair unevenly. Then I study my face in the mirror once again, turning it left and then right. Trying to find some saving grace.

Oh, my God.

Oh, my God.

I cover my face, struggling to will the tears away. But I fail, and soon I’m banging my head against the wall repeatedly. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

Who said this was a good idea? It’s terrible! Gosh, I can’t believe I did this. Why, why, why, why?

Then it hits me again. All new changes must be welcomed with an open mind. A change is a change is a change. At the end of the day, I took the leap I’ve always wanted to take. So who cares if it’s not exactly to my liking?

I take a deep breath in and face the mirror once again. My hair is smooth, silky, and honestly, it’s miles better than what I had previously. Yeah, it really isn’t that bad. It really isn’t . . .

Before I know it, I’m crouching down with my face buried in my hands, screaming. I hope I do get hit by a bus.

___

The following day, I meet up with Jenny by the coffee shop, once again nervous. I think I got all the grief out of my system. Now I’m no longer as bothered as I was yesterday.

Well, that’s all under the condition that I don’t look into a mirror. As long as I steer clear of anything reflective, I should be good to go.

Jenny is as bewildered as I imagined her to be. She sets her smoothie down slowly, trying to grasp this brand-new image of me in front of her. She seems to be having a hard time. Can’t say I blame her, though.

“Your hair.” Jenny says. “It’s . . . different.”

It’s only now that I realize this is the first time she’s seen me in anything other than straight, lengthy hair. It’s been a stagnant four years, hasn’t it?

“What did you do?” Jenny asks again, hands in my hair.

“I thought it’d be a nice change of pace.” Key word: thought. I don’t think I feel that way any longer.

But if there’s anyone I expected to be blown away by the hairstyle, it’s Jenny. I guess that’s why I came to her a little hopeful, so she could tell me I’m way over my head. That the style looks good on me. That I made the right choice. That it wasn’t a mistake.

But all I receive is an echo of my own doubts. “I don’t know, Dalia. Honestly, I liked the old one better.”

Right. The old one. It’s a suggestion that I should have stuck to what I was comfortable with. But to grow means becoming unfamiliar with being comfortable. It’s the only way up, like Jenny once mentioned. There’s nowhere else to go but up.

Still, it’s disheartening that Jenny thinks that about the hair. I shouldn’t let it bother me too much. What’s done is done.

The conversation between us two falls in the same category. Options one through three. I get the sense that it’s the same tango between Jenny and those boy toys of hers. Always one argument or the other. Never a solution to the problem. I’ve also come to realize that perhaps Jenny loves that sort of attention.

“Oh, I have to go.” She tells me, gathering her things together. “Another meeting with you-know-who.”

“Wait, I was wondering if you wanted to go shopping later?” I ask Jenny. I have plans to change up my wardrobe, and who better to help me than Jenny herself.

“Shopping?” She asks, as if my idea is a joke. I mean, sure, I’ve never been interested, but it can’t be that surprising. “Can’t do. I’m meeting up with Shane.”

My mouth turns bitter, and the same damn knot forms in my stomach. I really hate feeling this way. But the sourness soon passes away, a couple minutes after Jenny leaves. And now I’m left alone with pieces of my own doubts and an unwanted hairstyle.

This is ridiculous. I’m making a bigger deal out of this than necessary. I pull out my phone and turn the camera on my face, studying the hair for what it truly is. A new chance at life.

And you know what? It actually isn’t bad at all.