I’ve long since silenced myself on things pertaining to my physical assets. I figured that perhaps silencing the conversation would somehow make my insecurities shrink in size. But they’ve subsisted in abundance, presenting themselves in my daily life like they belong there. Sometimes I fear that I’ve invited them in for a permanent stay, yet I remind myself as much as humanly possible that the standard of beauty many of us subscribe to has been chosen for us. It is refurbished by advertisements that are plastered on billboards amidst the cities we live in and is survived through Hollywood’s choosings for particular lead roles.

I’d fallen asleep as a result of the deluge of hot air coming from the hood of the dryer I was sitting under last Saturday. For the past few months, I’ve grown accustomed to spending Saturday mornings perched atop a salon chair, awaiting the five or so hours it would take to fasten my hair in Marley twists. Last August, I presumed that the advent of college would be a great time to experiment with my hair and offer it a protective style as opposed to the damaging clasps of flat iron plates. From then on, I promised myself that I would put up a great fight to avoid using heating tools to straighten my dying curl pattern.

Chopping an entire ponytail’s worth of hair hadn’t stopped the many years of damage from encroaching on the new growth. The summation of hot combing, ironing and blow drying had completely taken its toll. Marley twists seemed like an appropriate solution to my developing issue, but they were not to be a longstanding fix. On an average trip to the hairdresser, I spend around $200: including hair extensions, the process of braiding and a fairly decent tip. After around two months, I’d be due to redo the twists in the same fashion and start the cycle all over again.

I’d woken up dreary eyed and partially delirious from the lack of sleep the night before, but a new idea had dawned on me. I leapt to my feet and charged in the direction of my stylist who was hard at work foraging through another woman’s tresses. “I’m due for a pixie cut!” She stood there puzzled as if I’d breathed the most dangerous phrase known to womankind. “I can’t stand sitting in that chair anymore. I’m ready to chop my hair off. Are you?” I insisted.

My persistence came as a shock to the surrounding women decked out in plastic wraps, curlers and flexi rods. Jaws had dropped in unison at the sounding of a girl who was indeed completely exhausted by her willingness to keep up -- with the crowd that is.

I forcibly dialed my mother who was, thankfully, a short distance away and asked her to join me. Haircuts are not necessarily momentous occasions. Everyone gets them and they’re rarely publicized ordeals. But I was actually going through with the task I’d sought to complete some time ago. Buried under the weight of hair that wasn’t even mine, I dulled in comparison. The thick, curtain-like hair had drawn me up in that similar cyclic phase.

Shortly after, I was watching as handfuls of hair cascaded through the air, plummeting to their fateful death. In the mirror, I could see my beady eyes brighten with exposure and my cheekbones lift to a refined degree. My neck was no longer blanketed in the twists. I quickly reached to confirm that the deed had been done. Not a single tear had been shed for someone who so intensely feared the outcome.

I chose to withhold the secret from friends and

family until they could see me in passing. I wanted them to see the person I’ve longed to know for a great deal of time. In the flesh, I could parade around that mini-field of curls atop my head and feel like I was proactively tackling my years of self-hate. This feeling tells me that short, natural hair should be valued in the same way that elongated, straight hair is valued. It stands for acceptance no matter the appearance. Sure, I’ve had my slew of doubts. I woke up the majority of the past few days wondering if I’d made a drastic mistake in going for the chop.I’ve recognized that people will have their preferences: some will absolutely abhor my hair, others will praise it. But even if you maintain such preferences and opinions, understand that what I now bear is me in totality and completeness. I am no longer sheathed under the weight of hair that wasn’t even mine and the world’s conception of idealized hair beauty -- I am wholly myself in a newer form. I cut my hair and I’ve still got a lifetime of spontaneity to come.