I started strong with a Mohawk. It was bold, spiky, and made a statement… but the statement faded fast. Then came the buzz cuts—first short, then shorter. Practical, sure, but I felt more like a walking peach than a person. I tried a slick fade—super clean, super cool… for someone else. The bowl cut? Let’s just say it looked better in theory.
Oh, the bangs. It was a good idea until they constantly fell into my eyes and made me look like a moody backup dancer from the early 2000s.
Then, somewhere in the middle of all that trial and error, the Tarzan look happened.
My bangs were bothering me again, and my mom effortlessly came to my rescue. Equipped like Edward Scissorhands, she meticulously trimmed sleek strands away until my eyes were free. She moved on to trim the back, but I stopped her.
“Leave it,” I said. “I want to keep it long.”
She raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. And that was it.
Since then, it’s been hair down, every day. When I run, the wind rushes through it like a soundtrack. There’s something about the feeling of my hair lifting and flying as I sprint down a garden path, occasionally glancing back at my parents who try to close the growing gap between us. It’s wild. It’s free.
Business in the front. Party in the back.
That tailwind gives me speed.