a million moths.

from the worst haircut since the mullet fiasco of 1990 when my mom was too distracted getting a perm and i was too distracted stuffing my face with the hairstylist’s turkish delights to feel the cold sheers grazing my ears. never had i heard my mom scream so loud. it didn’t matter that half the things she said came out in spanish. or that her curlers were still attached. or that i stood by shaking, in a puddle of tears. she yelled. she stomped and pointed at my maimed head and grabbed me by the arm and marched out of supercuts never to return again. that’s exactly how i feel now: maimed. only this time i didn’t have my mom to fight back for me. i just smiled, quietly paid morena, our family stylist, then slipped out, never to return again.