There are times in a horror movie when you know something dreadful is going to happen. If you hear scary music, watch out! A torrential storm crackling in the background — hold on tight. Even a knock on the door can be a signal for impending doom. But the one that gets me every time is the scene when the character takes a big pair of metal scissors and begins chopping their hair off. This is not to be confused with the woman who wants to change her life and gets a makeover and an amazing new haircut; this is a fierce stabbing of the blade, hacking off their tresses, and what comes next is often death. And then there was me. And my weapons.
“You look just like that model,” someone would say.
“You think so?” I’d reply.
Thinking I’m not developed like her yet or anything, but, wow, I must be beautiful.
“The eyebrows, you have the same eyebrows,” they’d say, pointing to those furry pieces on top of their eyes.
“Yeah, everyone tells me that,” I’d mutter before putting my head down and pulling off a few choice hairs.
Why can’t I actually look like someone else? I thought.
I’d stare in the mirror and zone in on those thick caterpillars on my face. I wanted to remove those eyesores, but how? I tried picking them out one by one, but it hurt. I grew impatient, so that is when I searched for tools.
In the bathroom, I found a pink plastic razor that would serve my purpose. I wasn’t going for full fleek mode — all I wanted were those baby hairs that turned my set of eyebrows into one thick line to be removed. This was simple, I thought — a quick swipe, and they’d be gone forever.
I stared in the mirror and smiled. I always did that. I loved seeing my reflection and let out a big grin. Then I did it — I took that razor out and pressed down gently. Nothing. Then I tried again, a few cilia got stuck in the blade, and then I did the unthinkable.
That scene in the horror movie where the antagonist chops off their hair is their lowest moment, their despair, their absolute rock bottom. Wait, stop, this is not that dark. I just said I smiled when I looked at myself in the mirror, didn’t I? This is just a girl trying to blend in. But damn if anyone was going to compare me to that bushy-browed model again. So I did it, and did it again until I was left with two little squares resembling Groucho Marx’s mustache on the top of my head. I definitely no longer looked like a model. I looked like a serial killer.
I tried to cover it up, but no amount of eyebrow makeup would ever make my brows look real again. Every time I sat in class reading, I’d look up, and stupid Duane would look at me and take his fingers to his eyebrows and make an air-guitar version of removing them. He was merciless. It took a full month for them to grow back, but not in time for class pictures. In it, there’s me, my long hair held back by two golden barrettes, and my eyebrows painted on with brown eyeshadow. I needed those henna tattoos instead.
You’d think I would have learned my lesson the first time and given up the blade, but you’d be wrong. A full year had passed, and I found myself, now a sixth-grader, ready to graduate elementary school, ready to go to summer camp and start anew when it happened again.
First, I went caveman and tried ripping some of my hair out with my bare hands, but there were too many of them. Blond little wisps inundated my face. Then I went for the big guns. The kitchen had a series of large knives that my mother used for chopping placed behind the stove in a rack that you could pull out when you wanted to. I took one and thought, nope, that’s too big. Then I found a pair of scissors and took them to the mirror.
I started slowly. I cut a few strands, then some more, and then I just got into it and took that beautiful hair of mine and began cutting it off. Not like a horror-movie killer, but like what would have been bangs was instead a few stray pieces of crooked hair on top of my forehead, like those cool short bangs, only not. No bangs. No hair, just a Z formation on top of my hair. If I didn’t want my eyebrows to stand out before, they were front and center now.
I cleaned up the loose hairs and returned the scissors and thought no one would notice. I mean, except for Duane, not too many people were focused on the lost eyebrows.
At dinner, I came down to the kitchen and took my seat in the corner.
“Elana! What have you done!” my mother screamed.
“A trim?” I said.
“Where is your hair?”
“In the garbage. Don’t worry, Mom; I cleaned it up.”
She just shook her head and left it at that.
The next day at school, no one really noticed. It was the growing-in phase that was torture. You know, if you ever want to grow out your bangs during that awkward period where you wait for it to pass your ears again, it’s a little inconvenient when you want to pull your hair back, but it’s not too bad. Well, this was the worst thing you have ever seen. And just in time for graduation.
I had on a white shirt and blue skirt as per the uniform, and I was standing there with Lauren and Julie, taking my spot in the middle as my spot as a second-best friend. My hair was done professionally by a hairdresser that morning, and its spirals hit my shoulder. Then the camera peered into my face, and on top of my head was the tiniest crew cut you have ever seen. My bangs growing in meant a half-inch of hair, like a small mustache on top of my forehead. An eyesore. My penance.
The following year, I entered middle school. A notoriously difficult time in adolescence. I was more preoccupied with that transition and less focused on my eyebrows.
I stopped trying to change myself after that. After all those years of playing Dr. Scissorhands, I decided to let my hair just be and finally learned to accept what I had been given. As I got older, I took on the moniker Frida Kahlo next and was okay with it. That woman is fierce.
I realized that it’s okay to have something that makes you stand out. In fact, it may be a blessing. At this stage of my life, the last thing I want is to be like everyone else.
Elana Rabinowitz is a freelance writer and ESL teacher. Her work has appeared in Good Housekeeping, The New York Times, and The Washington Post. She is currently working on her memoir. You can follow her on Twitter @ElanaRabinowitz.
Get Shondaland directly in your inbox: SUBSCRIBE TODAY
