I have never seen my face. Really. If I was to attempt to describe myself, I would say that I stand at average height. I can see all ten of my toes when I look down at my feet, I have four fingers and a thumb on each hand, and my pinkies curve outward just slightly in the middle. I have a warm skin tone that I have been told is too dark to be this and too light to be that. When I focus my eyes as close together as I can, I see the very tip of my nose. I cannot see my septum piercing, but I like wiggling my nose around to feel it moving against my skin. The weight of the ring is a comfort, reminding me of my distinguishable features. My hands hang loosely about my waist, and my mother constantly tells me to stand up straight, so I try to straighten my spine by shoving my hands into my pockets and throwing my shoulders back. A doctor once told me my left breast sat higher than my right one, but no one has commented on the difference. I can cross my arms comfortably across my chest, but when I sit cross-legged, my knees always seem to poke out at awkward and uncomfortable angles. The smell of bad breath is nauseating to my senses, so I have developed an obsessive habit of brushing my teeth: Once after every meal, before going to bed, and after getting up in the morning. My dentist told me I had the most gorgeous set of chompers he’d ever seen. I took him at his word. I can see my lips when I pucker my mouth just right. My lips are a pale pink color, I think, and every time I put on a dress, I pull out a tube of Royal Red lipstick to layer over them. My sister always told me red lipstick would bring out my ‘warm undertones’ and ‘hazel eyes.’ She was into the beauty trends and would know these things. The ends of my hair tickle the back of my neck but when they brush the tops of my shoulders, I find my way to Mrs. Becky’s hairdressing chair.
Mrs. Becky has cut my hair since I was young. One particular Saturday afternoon, I determined I could no longer bear the ends of my hair soaking in sweat on the back of my neck. It was getting to that middle part of the summer when the heat becomes stale in the air and sticks to the back of your throat with every breath.
“Hello, darling,” said Mrs. Becky as I walked into her shop. She was shuffling some papers around and her neck was angled sharply to pin a phone between her ear and her shoulder. She looked up at me and smiled, “Got your chair all ready for you back there. Go on and have a seat,” she said with a wave of her hand. I strolled past the line of chairs and mirrors to the seat in the back. It was a lone chair, pushed somewhat into a corner away from the looming floor-length mirrors; I kicked off my shoes and got comfortable in the chair.
Mrs. Becky finished her phone call and walked to the back, where she gave me a quick peck on the cheek and flourished the chair cloth over me.
“Hasn’t been long since the last time you were in here, I believe,” she said. “Anything I should be concerned about, no thoughts of shaving it all off suddenly, right?”
“Mrs. Becky, you read my mind,” I said with a chuckle. “Does my face give everything away?”
She gasped aloud, and her hand flew to her mouth. “You can’t be a serious child, all your gorgeous locks? Why, you look so smart when you use the gel I told you about!”
“It’s hot, Mrs. Becky. Really hot. My hair is practically weighing me down.”
“You will most certainly regret this.”
“My thoughts will be so much clearer through a brain that is not cooking under my heavy hair.”
“What will your mother think?”
“Just think of how much quicker my showers will be now.”
“People may assume you’re a boy if you shave your head.”
“I can’t wait to go for a swim after I lose all this hair. I imagine it’s a much smoother experience to glide through the water like a bald and slimy fish,” I said just as the thought came to me. I couldn’t help but burst out laughing and couldn’t wait to test out the theory.
I looked up at Mrs. Becky, “Where are your shears, it’s time for the hair to go.”
She was searching my face for an explanation. “Why would any girl want to shave all their hair off?” Mrs. Becky said incredulously.
“What does it matter to me, Mrs. Becky?” I said. “I cannot see my hair. Why should I not cut it off if it is bothering me?”
“Because you will look very different, darling,” Mrs. Becky said in an overwhelmingly tender tone.
“Okay, Mrs. Becky,” I said. I looked around the shop for a minute. I stood up from my chair and walked through the row of shop chairs, empty and awaiting the next customer to get their hair cut. The chairs all faced oversized mirrors. I stopped at one of the chairs and stared squarely into the mirror in front of me, but I did not see me. I was a ghost to myself. I have a physicality that mirrors cannot reflect, and cameras cannot detect. I have never seen my face. Why should I care if I lose my hair?