How Barak Shoshan Stole My Identity

I had always been known as the girl with long hair.

Wherever I went elderly ladies and little girls would ogle and pull at my red hair, incessantly asking how I maintained its length. I would respond with the seasoned story of my attachment to my locks and my mother’s sheer terror at the thought of a haircut. From a very early age my mom saw my hair as an extension of my personality-unique, unkempt, and as quintessential to my makeup as a piece of my brain. Due to my fear of change and desire to preserve the careful balance of our relationship, I kept my mouth shut and my hair long. My silence lasted until I walked into Barak Shoshan’s studio.

It was Sukkot break and some friends and I headed to Tel Aviv to spend the days in the most basic sem fashion. Prior to our departure, one of my friends requested that we make a quick stop at a hair salon before settling into our vacation. We all agreed and I pretended not to notice when my friend booked an appointment for me as well. I tried to rationalize this notion as much as possible; “just the dead ends,” I repeated to myself over and over . In the days leading up to our trip, I spent an unhealthy amount of hours Googling the benefits to trimming dead ends and the mental advantages of a new cut. Sure that my mother would never want me to pass up an opportunity to enhance my mental and physical health, I calmed my breathing and prepped my mane.

I had done a pretty decent job of denying the reality of my situation until it was my turn to don the smock. Suddenly my wide knowledge of Google searches couldn’t slow my heart rate.

“Just an inch or two,” I blurted out.

“Barak, she doesn’t know what she’s talking about; she wants it all cut off.” My outspoken roommate was now at my side, voicing the script of my nightmares.

“No, Barak, look in my eyes. Are these the eyes of someone who is emotionally stable enough to change her identity right now?”

Our bickering went back and forth, I fought as if this man would move the knife from my hair to my throat. Barak had heard enough and he called me over to brush out my hair. Relief flooded my body as I knew that he had taken my side. I closed my eyes and attempted to relax while the bristles of the brush grazed against my lower back. But a moment later my pulse quickened as the snipping of scissors rang in my ears. I blinked vehemently to keep myself from crying and swallowed hard to keep myself from throwing up. As Barak swung his arm over my shoulder to present the ten inches of my now dead selfhood, my perception shifted.

I had always been known as the girl with long hair, but now I could just go by Ellie.