I place the dull child scissors onto the bathroom sink, waiting for something. I do not know what but I do know is that I’m waiting, waiting, waiting. All throughout history, hair has had an interesting meaning. In one culture, cutting off hair means a new start, not remembering their homes, their roots. Others grow their hair out so long, honoring the ancestors before them. All in all, hair, in many cultures, are strands of history. Weaving the thin threads into a story. Whether the story is such a lovely one, or a story of terror and hatred, the threads have the history that only belongs to you woven into their cores. So as a stand here in the restroom, darkness woven into my history, I now know my sign. I grab the first lock of burgundy dyed hair and cut it off with the dull scissors of my brother. For me, this symbolizes me finally letting go of my darkness, taking back my fragile mind and my history. The cage that once held me can hold me no longer as locks of the dark hair surround me, leaving my hair quite choppy. But I do not care. I cut through the cage of life with these dull child scissors. Whether this has consequences or not, I will not care. Not now, not ever. As my strands of history surround and prick at my bare feet, I know that I found my sign and I’m ready for what’s to come next.