I refused to cut my hair until I was seven. My mother probably hated having to sit down every day until then to untangle the nests in my hair- and my relentless whining every time the brush pulled my head back a bit too far, but she misses it every time it’s short. I liked going to bed with my hair spread out along the pillow, the ritual of my aunt stroking my hair until I fell asleep whenever she visited.

Every weekend I’d go to my dad’s apartment building- on this particular day, my mother thought it was nice enough to walk there, so that’s what we did. The three-block walk wasn’t too taxing- the only complaint I had was how sweaty her hand had gotten while it was locked with mine. We were three houses away from the complex when I’d decided holding hands was annoying, so my small hand slipped out of hers and we continued walking side by side. The laughing of kids across the street echoed across- someone wasn’t great at shooting hoops apparently- and my gaze locked on the ball before I clashed with something hard. My mother immediately apologized to whatever it was, or ​whoever ​it was- I’d realized as I looked up and took a step back.

He couldn’t have been younger than sixty, based on the raisin-like skin and hunched over posture he’d had. The smell of him made me recoil slightly- like he’d taken a bath in his cologne and his senses were too far gone to understand that just a spritz would have sufficed. He didn’t even wince at my mistake, smiled at my mother with a reassurance that there wasn’t a problem before training beady eyes on me. One shaky hand rose up and over to me, settling onto my scalp before threading fingers through my hair. The trip down to the end of the strands was the longest of my life- he curled them in and stared down, seemingly enraptured. His eyes slithered back up to mine after an excruciating moment- I wanted nothing more than to move back into the sanctuary of my mother’s side, my left leg being the closest to her and twitching to do so- but his thin, chapped lips curled up into the sort of smile I knew was ​wrong, ​trapping me instead. He turned back to my mother again.

“Your daughter is gorgeous,” he said, thumb brushing a stand back against my head. “Her hair is perfect.”

I caught my mother’s gaze, fingers wrapping against my leg. She stiffened and held her hand out, smile gone. I was quick to clutch it, eyes hot and my own palm even sweatier than hers had been. She thanked him, murmured a goodbye, and pulled me along up the stairs to my dad’s complex. He met us halfway, brows furrowed and arms crossed over his chest. My parents spoke quietly while I alternated which leg I shifted my weight on. My mother made a noise in alarm I wasn’t used to as they spoke- they both came back to me, kneeling. My dad told me not to speak to that man again, that he wasn’t safe to be around and police didn’t like him.

My hair was cut to my chin the next morning- and it hasn’t been any longer since.

– Breanna Skaar