A little kid lay in bed, playing with the fringes of their blanket. First they looped the fabric around one finger, then pulled the end through in a knot, then unknotted it. They’d learned how to braid recently — their hair had been too short for it, most of their life. It was their grandmother, their mother’s mother, who taught them. Now they swapped knotting-unknotting for braiding-unbraiding, the same repetitive motions lulling them to sleep.
They had gotten their hair cut short again. The ends tickled their neck, and they enjoyed the new lightness of their head. They knew they wanted to try growing their hair out again; this time, they wanted it to go all the way down their back.
Sometimes, when they couldn’t fall asleep, and lay in bed braiding-unbraiding for long stretches of time, they would stare at their ceiling and paint a future on it. They liked writing, so they wanted to be a famous writer, and maybe travel the world. They loved the sound of their pulse pounding against their skull as they ran, so they imagined herself as a famous runner, outdoing her father and grandfather. Maybe they would continue swimming, they thought, and become an Olympic swimmer. They’d seen Katie Ledecky win a medal on TV, at fifteen years old. They would be fifteen-almost-sixteen for the 2020 Olympics.
They would walk out onto the deck with broad shoulders drawn back, their arms swinging lazily by their sides, and their long, long hair bundled up beneath their cap. On the ceiling, the little kid could see their competitors on either side of them, the stands stretching out in front of them, cameras pointed at their face. The little kid searched the crowd — there! Their sister, who would be seven, was standing between their parents. The little kid raised their hand to wave.
They caught sight of their hand. Their nails were bitten short. They had small, grubby fingers that they could barely distinguish in the dark room. As they slowly floated back down, the sounds of their wall clock reached their ears. Tick, tock, tick, tock. Time still passes in a daydream.
They let their hand fall back to the fringes of their blanket. Braid, unbraid.
In that way, they lulled themself to sleep.
“Are you still swimming?” the hairdresser asked me.
“Yep.” I’d been given the option to quit earlier that summer, but I hadn’t taken it. I had been determined to keep swimming through high school. I owed it to myself, anyway. “Obviously, my high school’s not going to have a season this year, but I’m still swimming on my club team.”
The hairdresser nodded. She was brushing my hair, looking at it, almost considering it. “How are your classes going? Are you still taking Español?”
“I am, actually. I’m taking AP this year. Not sure how that’ll go, with virtual learning and all, but we’ll see.” I was watching her in the mirror. She reached over and took a clip from the shelf. She met my eyes and gave me a smile, which I returned.
I asked her about her daughter, who was a little younger than me. She started talking animatedly as she divided my hair neatly in half, pinning one half away from the other. She interrupted herself to ask, “Here?”
I’d already discussed the length with her, but I gave myself time to imagine what it would look like, how it would feel. “Yeah, there’s perfect.”
The hairdresser pulled that half of my hair back with a white elastic band, tying the band where she would cut later. She pulled the other half back, tying a second band in the exact same spot. Silver flashed in the mirror, materializing into a pair of scissors. She angled the scissors above the rubber band. She made a cut — a quiet, deliberate snip.
Then another quiet, deliberate snip.
“You can open your eyes now.” I heard the smile in her voice.
She dropped both ponytails into a plastic bag, then herded me over to the sink to wash my hair. After washing, she brought me back to the chair and gave me a trim, evening out the slightly jagged ends. I reached up and ran a hand over it, marveling at how different it felt already. Her eyes crinkled at me in the mirror — a smile, behind her mask. I beamed in return.
They told me I’d donated nearly eighteen inches of hair, and because my hair was so thick, they would make two wigs out of it. Two wigs for two kids with cancer.
I would quit swimming the following winter.