“Just a little off the top please.”

I’d repeat this same grueling phrase every two months to my barber. But back then, getting haircuts felt exciting, now I can’t even look in the mirror after one.

Elementary school and middle school were places of solace, nobody seemed to care what you looked like or how you dressed. Everyone was so caught up in the newest game, Pokemon card, or book. Even if people did care, I never seemed to notice.

I had the same barber throughout elementary and middle school — my aunt. My aunt was a carefree woman who always offered to feed me and most importantly, cut my hair for free. Who doesn’t like free things? After a haircut from my aunt, I’d always play on my cousin’s Nintendo Wii while she swept the black masses of hair on the floor into a trashcan.

I never thought my aunt’s haircuts were bad and fell into a routine every couple of months getting a haircut from her. But, the COVID-19 quarantine hit, and was a season of unwelcome change that changed my perspective on my appearance and her haircuts.

Unable to visit my aunt for a haircut, I forgot about the comfort of her haircuts and hospitality. As time passed, my connection with her faded while my hair grew. My hair was longer than it had ever been, and I liked the new look. Longer hair covered up features I developed insecurities about during this time of isolation.

I grew especially self-conscious about those little bumps developing on my face known as “pimples.”

These pimples seemed to be never-ending, amassing more day by day, but my hair also seemed never-ending, extending as time passed by to cover up the splotches of red dots on my face. Luckily, quarantine allowed me to hide in my room, where I tried different home remedies to get rid of my acne. Yet, all attempts seemed futile.

The school year was emerging from around the corner and lockdown was coming to an end.

With this, my parents continued to exclaim, “You need a haircut, John!”

I continuously ignored their demands for as long as I could, until one day my parents decided to take me to my aunt’s house to get a haircut. I became ambivalent towards the idea of chopping my hair off. My hair had drooped down to my neck and was an extension of my identity at the time, representing the changes I had gone through during those years of seclusion. Cutting my hair meant losing my identity, yet I missed those nostalgic moments of my aunt using her clippers on my head.

My aunt’s house was the same as I remembered, just with lighter wooden floors. The Nintendo Wii that I had played many games of Wii Sports Resorts on was at the same spot, to the right of the television with four controllers sitting unused. My aunt urged me into her restroom, where she had her salon station set up for me. She draped a black apron over me, tying the white neck strip around my neck.

Snip.

All of it was gone. I couldn’t recognize myself in the mirror. Red bumps appeared to fill my face, I felt like the girl from “A Bad Case of Stripes”—except there wasn’t a lima bean to save me.

“Do you like it?” My aunt asked.

I reluctantly said “Yes,” but I continued to question and lose confidence in my appearance.

I couldn’t admit to my aunt who had given me so much over the years, that I didn’t like my haircut. On the car ride home, my parents insisted the haircut was nice and “would grow out before school started,” but that only made me feel worse.

High School was approaching, and if I learned anything from “High School Musical”, students like Sharpay are ruthless. As I expected, my parent’s attempts at consolation were fruitless, and my hair did not “grow out” in time like they claimed it would.

Maybe it wasn’t as bad as I thought it was. Maybe it was all in my head. These thoughts continued to overflow my brain. Nevertheless, the first day of high school came anyway.

Walking into the front door of Carnegie, tons of new faces surrounded me like bees swarming a hive. I missed the convenience of online school and was filled with self-doubt. Was everyone looking at me? How would my friends react? 

Advocacy. First period. Second Period. Third Period. Fourth Period. Lunch. Fifth period. Sixth Period. Seventh period.

Time seemed to fly by on the first day of school, yet at the end of the day, I was at ease. I was relieved that nobody had said anything negative about my acne, my clothing, and especially my haircut. Then, the second day passed by, the third, and now, three years have passed by.

I’m currently a junior in high school, and I’ve realized that nobody cares about your appearance, and a “bad haircut” really isn’t that bad. Being scared of change is natural, and it can take a while to get used to seeing a “new you”. However, this fear of change hasn’t completely faded. I’ve simply learned to dive head-first into the water and live with my fears under the water. Now, as I walk the halls with my AirPods blasting music, I can drown out the bustling noises of rowdy students and focus on improving myself.