That night at home, she spent quite some time in front of the mirror inspecting her shorn hair. In her culture, a woman's hair was sacred, to be grown loose and long, but kept covered in public. The first man to see her hair should be her husband; it was her gift to him on their wedding night. The long swathe that usually brushed the backs of her knees was her most valuable possession. It meant that she was untouched, pure. Once again she felt the tears prick her eyes, and this time she gave in without a fight.  

She began to cry, louder and louder, until she was screaming. Her father heard her and ran into the bathroom. He found her sitting in the corner, tugging her hair hysterically and rocking back and forth as she wailed. She refused to let him near her, kicking and biting the hands that reached out to help. Her father tried to convince her that her hair would grow back, but she was inconsolable. Deep inside, she knew that it could never really be replaced because the hand had cut it off forever that day. It had fallen to the floor of that barber shop and had been swept away irretrievably. He finally decided to let her cry herself out, because there was nothing more he could do.  

Temper tantrum, he said to her mother.  

As the days passed and the bruises faded from her body, she instinctively did what she had to do to save her sanity. She forgot about it.  

Two years later in the middle of gym class, the scene in the barber's shop returned to her unaccountably, bit by bit, like an old dream. She remembered the mirror first, with its indefinitely dwindling children. Soon the snipping sound of the scissors started to reverberate in her ears, and the hand loomed before her once again. This time though, it had no power over her. She was no longer an inexperienced child, but a young lady of thirteen who was all too familiar with the ways of the world. The incident was part of the past with no influence on the present or the future. It was not a serious matter to her. She remembered that she had not even been upset by it. She told her best friend about it on the way to geography. She milked the incident for all it was worth, enjoying the sympathy and the attention, but realizing that her agitation was a sham. She knew that it really hadn't affected her one way or the other.  

That night, her best friend called her to be sure that she was okay. As she reassured her that she was fine, her father overheard her end of the conversation, and wanted to know what she was talking about. She thought about it and realized that he deserved to know. Her father still took her and her sister to the same barber. They had actually become friends, because the barber was from his native country. But she still didn't think it really mattered. After all, it was a long time ago. And yet, she was reluctant to tell him about it, although she herself did not fully understand the reluctance.