I cut my hair short when I turned twelve. It was really short. It’s like a boy’s hair, my mom said to me. I don’t know why I did it looking back on it and I don’t really like remembering the time when my hair was short like a boy. But strangely enough, the day I got my hair cut short, I remember that I really liked it. The days before I cut my hair short I was excited. The months I spent convincing my mom were long but I wanted it real bad. I thought it would make me happy. It was something new. It would be easy to take care of. And it was. But that didn’t make me happy the day after or the months after that. I wondered why I couldn’t feel like a girl anymore. Other girls with short hair could still look pretty but I couldn’t. Maybe my mom’s words had gotten to me. She did like to remind me that I looked like a boy. Because only boys have short hair. I also played a lot of sports. Just like a boy my mom would remark everything she picked me up from practice. When I was 13, my hair had grown back. It was long enough to feel a little bit more pretty and like a girl. But it just wasn’t enough. I stopped being happy when I was twelve. At this time, I had started to see even more features that belonged to a boy. My shoulders were broad. My eyelashes weren’t very long or visible. My mom never called me pretty after I turned twelve. The only time I heard her call someone pretty was towards the slim and pale women in tv shows. Maybe I just needed to lose weight and stop playing sports. So I did. I stayed home, too scared to go outside. I stayed in my room, too scared to eat. Afterall, if I didn’t, my mom would be right. I wouldn’t be pretty like a girl ever again just like when I was before I turned twelve.