Trich

"Stop it!" Mom ordered. She was driving me to the hairdresser.

I jerked my hand away from my head. I fiddled with my jeans for a few minutes, then reached up for my hair again. I twirled a strand around my finger, and snapped it in half.

"Tien! Quit it, or you won't have any hair left at all!"

That didn’t sound so bad to me, but I didn’t know why.

I sat on my hands for the rest of the drive. I kept my tongue between my teeth, and bit down hard every time I felt the urge again.

"We're here," Mom announced. I opened the door and followed her into the building. 

"What can I do for you today?" a hairdresser, Helen, asked as I sat down in a chair.

I shrugged. "Even it out, I guess."

"Hmm..." Helen mumbled, measuring the two sides of my dark hair. I tapped my feet together as I waited for her to ask why there was a five-inch difference in length. "How did..."

"Trichotillomania," I said.

"Sorry?"

"Trich. Hair-pulling disorder. Type of OCD."

"Okay... so, what do you want, exactly?"

Does it matter? I thought. I’m not going to like it either way. I never do.

"Shave it," somebody said. I turned around to see a customer with a jean jacket and a fresh buzz cut smiling at me sympathetically. 

"Excuse me?" Mom said.

"Shave it," the customer repeated. "That's how I deal with trich."

The shock on my face was apparent. I knew I wasn't the only one with this condition, but I'd never actually met someone else like me.

I watched as the person walked out of the parlour, the colourfully striped pins on their collar shining in the sun. In a moment of inspiration, I got up and took a pair of scissors from the shelf by the mirror. I gathered all of my hair into my fist, closed my eyes, and cut.

Mom gasped. "Tien!"

The hair fell from my hand to the floor. 

I stared at my reflection. Mom stared at me.

I was no longer asymmetrical. Although the edges weren't perfect, I was more satisfied with this image of myself than I had ever been. I reached out to twirl a strand, but it wasn't long enough for me to pull out. I wasn’t a danger to myself anymore. That should have been a huge relief, but the excitement in my chest seemed to stem from something else. 

"Let me just tidy that up for you," Helen said.

While she fixed the beautiful mess I just made, my thumb traced my smile. How come I never tried this earlier? Mom would threaten me with a haircut every time she saw me tugging at it, and secretly, I hoped she would follow through. All this time, and I should have just done it myself.I played with my new bangs, keeping my gaze on the mirror. For the first time in many, many years, I felt good about what I saw... but I didn’t know why.