by Carissa Gozali

Cutting my hair is my revival.
To watch inches of dead weight and toxicity hit the ground.
To whip my hair back and forth like Willow Smith declares.
To fight the men that say they only like girls with long hair.
To negate the importance of proteins on my scalp as their definition of me.
To save fifteen minutes in the shower so I can make my cat-eye stronger and sharper. Or there at all.
To know that I can be a girlboss or a beach babe or invisible whenever I so choose.
To walk out of the salon or the bathroom and feel powerful.
To check myself out past a mirror.
To mark a change.
A new me.
A strong me.
A me that’s split ends might grow back but can be cut off again.
A me that is forgiven.
A new, better, and badder, me.
A me I love even if they don’t.

 


Carissa Gozali | @cuwwysa

Carissa Gozali resides in Singapore, a tiny little island infamous for their absence of gum and regular presence of heat and humidity in a deadly combination. She hopes to move to Melbourne, Australia one day and be those girls that always have lip balm on hand and read Jane Austen for fun. You can find her at @cuwwysa on the ‘gram or her very angsty Tumblr page where she sometimes writes, here.

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