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A few gasps rose from the girls. Mairin felt a thrum of defiance in her gut. She used to be self-conscious about her fiery

red hair, but her mother had convinced her that it was pretty. Mam used to brush it out in the morning, and she’d say, “The

Lord gave you red hair so I could have roses in winter.”

It’ll be pretty again one day, Mam. Mairin didn’t need pretty hair now, not in this place. Not if it gave the nuns something to grab and twist when they wanted

to punish her.

“Help me out,” she said, handing the scissors to Denise. She knew that if she could convince Denise, plenty of others would go along. “It’s hard to do this on myself.”

Denise hesitated just for a second, then gave a shrug. “Suit yourself. I have no idea how to cut somebody’s hair.” Then Denise

pushed up the sleeves of her nightgown and brandished the scissors.

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” Mairin said. “You’re good at cutting things.” As Denise went to work, Mairin noticed a scar

on her inner arm. “What’s that?” she asked.

“What’s what?”

“On your arm. That scar. Are those... letters?”

Denise paused and turned it so she could see. “My name,” she said. “They took it away from me when I got here, so I scratched

it into my arm with a sewing needle.”

Mairin shuddered. “Well, that’s... it’s really brave, Denise. It must have hurt like crazy.”

Another shrug. “I can deal with that kind of hurt.”

“What happened to you?” Angela asked in a low whisper.

“None of your damn beeswax, that’s what happened.” She snipped off a hunk of Mairin’s hair.

“Denise, you can tell us.” Angela’s voice was gently insistent. “Was it the doctor?”

Denise pressed her lips together. Then she said, “The priest. The one who’s supposed to wash away all our sins. And just so

you know, I won’t speak of it again. Ever.” She punctuated the statement with a final snip of the scissors. “Who’s next?”

As Mairin fluffed her hands through what was left of her hair, she felt a surge of sympathy for Denise. The girl’s hurt was

buried in all the things she didn’t say, and it came out in the urge to lash out at others.

Since there were no mirrors in the building, Mairin had no idea how her hair looked, but the horror on some of the girls’

faces was a clue. Without her hair, she felt naked, and light as air. “Come on,” she said. “If we get in trouble, I’ll take

all the blame.”

Angela burst out laughing. “You look like a pixie!” She presented herself to Denise.

“Here, do me, and then I’ll do you.” The two of them giggled nervously as they cropped each other close.

Angela’s long, silken tresses soon littered the floor.

She shook her head, touched her fingers to her scalp. “Less time in a cold shower,” she said.

Janice studied her in wonder. “Somehow, you look even prettier with short hair.”

Angela laughed. “Go on.”

“You do. You’re like... like that famous model. Twiggy! And you’re even prettier.”

Angela handed the scissors over to Mairin. “You take over now.”

To Mairin’s surprise, Odessa stepped forward. Her midnight eyes shone with excitement. “Go for it,” she said. She turned and

presented her long braid, a thick, buoyant twist down her back.

When she wasn’t humming or singing, Odessa was usually one of the quietest girls at the Good Shepherd. She tackled all her

chores efficiently, her expression neutral, except for the occasional flash of her eyes when something caught her attention.

She was tall, with long, slender fingers calloused by work, and she had perfect posture, always holding herself with shoulders

squared and her chin held high.

“Are you sure?” Mairin asked.

“I said, go for it.” She held the end of her braid, stretching it taut. “Make me look like Nina Simone.”

Drawing in a deep breath to steady herself, Mairin gripped the base of the braid. “Here goes nothing,” she said. The thick

hair took several snips before it came away in her hand. She held it out to Odessa. “Your braid, madame,” she said with false

formality, dipping into a curtsy. Odessa laughed, and a few of the others joined in.

Within an hour, every girl present had submitted to the scissors. The act of rebellion gave them some kind of odd team spirit,

a sense of shared purpose. When the last girl was done, they stood around in the shower room, regarding the pile of hair in

all colors and textures, all different lengths.

They gazed at one another. A couple of them fought back tears. Helen put her hand to her head. “How do I look?” she asked.

“Awful,” Odessa whispered. “How do I look?”

“Terrible,” Helen told her, scrubbing her hand over her freshly shorn head.

“You look like a boy,” Denise said.

“Well, so do you,” Helen shot back.

“We all look awful,” Mairin said.

“We’re going to be in so much trouble,” Janice said, her eyes swimming with regret as her gaze darted from girl to girl. “I

can’t believe you made me do this.”

“Nobody made you,” Denise scoffed. “And what are they going to do, pull our hair? Punish us all? If they do that, who’ll they

get to wash their goddamn dirty laundry?”