Page 59 of Leaving the Station

“Are you asleepnow?” she asks.

I exhale. “No.”

“When I go back to Washington, I’m staying.”

“I know, you said.”

“And I’m rejoining the Church.”

Eight Weeks into College

My hair was an afterthought.

I admired the way some girls could spend hours curling, oiling,massaging, straightening, preening. It seemed relaxing.

But I’d never had it in me to do anything of the sort. My hair was long and thick, and had broken nearly every brush that had ever touched it.

It had to go.

Alden had asked if I’d wanted to hang out, but I’d told him I wasn’t feeling well. Which was true, even if I couldn’t have described my symptoms. The closest was probably existential dread, and a deep and abiding sense that something was intrinsically wrong with me.

But those weren’t chill things you could tell your boyfriend.

He said he’d bring me dinner and we could watch a movie or play cards, but I was running on no sleep and a manic desire to cut my hair.

I’d spent the past three hours watching tutorial after tutorial from hairstylists. It had started with the query “DIY short haircut” and had spiraled into an entire playlist on proper self-haircut technique.

When I was confident—or delusional—enough in my strategy, I headed to the dorm bathroom with fabric scissors and a comb.

No one could’ve stopped me from what I was about to do. I had to test the theory that if I gave myself a similar haircut to Alden’s, I would know once and for all if I wanted to be with him or if I wanted tobehim.

After he told me he was falling for me at the orchard, I’d spent nearly every waking hour contemplating those two options.

But I didn’t have to contemplate anymore; I could take action.

I hid in a stall until the coast was clear, then parked myself in front of the bathroom mirror.

The first step was to put my hair back in a ponytail, then cut the bulk off. I wrapped the hair tie around my hair once, twice, three times. I pulled it taut, then took a breath.

Ten minutes and about a million snips later, the majority of my hair was separated from my body. I thought I’d feelsomething,but I didn’t even recognize the heavy, knotted mess. It looked like a dead rodent.

From there, I kept cutting, until there was nothing sticking off the back of my head. I’d saved a bit at the front for bangs, but that didn’t feel right anymore—I needed it all gone.

The scissors were dull, but the sound echoed throughout the empty bathroom.

Some time later, I looked into the sink to find a dark mass of hair clogging the drain.

And then I chanced a look at myself. My hair was sticking up at odd angles—there wasn’t any discernable style, and it certainly didn’t look like Alden’s.

It was mine, and I loved it. I kept rubbing my hands over my spiky head. It was punk, almost purposefully disheveled.

I took a million selfies, posing at different angles. My screen was now covered in dark brown strands of hair, warping the photos.

The problem was that I wanted to send the pictures to someone, but I couldn’t do that. The Tees might’ve liked the haircut, but they were out of the question. I didn’t want Alden to know what I’d done, and my parents would’ve keeled over.

So the photos were just for me.

Back in my room, I played with my hair as I watched YouTube videos of these six guys who did ill-advised extreme sports. They constructed waves in rivers to surf, they kite-boarded canals in Amsterdam.