Trauma bangs

The blessing of surviving long enough to get a haircut he’d hate.

Soon after escaping, I cut my hair into a bob. He would have hated it.

It was a big change from the long, braided waves he loved; an act of defiance that would’ve infuriated him.

So obviously, I went shorter than I’d ever gone with it. I also impulsively decided to go for a curtain of bangs for the first time since elementary school.

Don’t get me wrong, they looked cute as hell. They were also a shield. An attempt to disguise myself; even as I settled into a new home across the country, far from his whiskey and firearms and groping hands. They were perfect.

Nearly five years later, I’m realizing how much my curly curtain of bangs prevented me from actually looking others in the eye.

Wearing them pulled back recently for the first time in years has been such a jarring increase in my field of vision. How much have I been missing with this excuse to keep my gaze down?

It took an old friend pointing out how much more I look like my old self lately to realize what an accomplishment that was.

Now, sometimes I stare in wonder when I catch my reflection, so out of view for years. Is that still the color of my eyes?

As much as cutting it short was for me, maybe it’s about time I let myself start growing it back out.