In the bathroom there were clippers. I plugged them in. My reflection looked too familiar. I looked too kind. My hair was long because that’s how Appa used to love it. “It’s just like my mother’s was,” he had said. But my long hair made me look as though you could mess with me. You could grab it, pull me down to the ground, and put your foot on my face. You could stuff my hair in my mouth and call me pretty. I didn’t need anyone to ever have that much leverage over me.
