The bristles catch in the back of my hair, refusing to budge. I tug hard at my scalp.Ouch.
Beauty is pain.
I’ve heard it at least five times a year since my earliest memory of my mama braiding my hair. But why does it have tohurt so damn much? Everything about being a woman is a pain. Our periods. Push-up bras. Brazilian waxes. Eyebrow threading.
Every decision about my appearance has felt out of my control. My body, my face, my career have been in the hands of someone else.
After tonight’s dance, I’ve taken back a part of myself I never realized I lost.
My sexuality. The sensual, yearning parts of me that Dante has awakened. And it feels so fucking good.
Everything I’ve wanted. I acted like an empress. I took charge. I’m an EP now. I’m playing an active role in this film by working with Amara. I’m almost thirty and no longer headed to playing roles as someone’s mother. The world’s reaction, all the media attention—it’s working in my favor.
Everyone loves this new era of me taking charge, and oh, so do I!
I try to work through the knot in my hair, but the bristles don’t move. The brush is still stuck, caught at the nape of my neck. I tug at it again, but it’s not moving.
I grab my brush again, yanking it and wincing. “Ow, ow, ow!” It won’t budge, it just hangs awkwardly from the side of my head like a bizarre fashion accessory. My eyes land on the kitchen scissors sitting on the counter, the ones I used to cut the labels off my lingerie set before I packed for LA. I can surely cut around this. Can’t exactly walk around with a hairbrush in my head.
I mean, it’s only at the back of my neck, right? Like no one would notice.
I carefully position the blades around the brush handle, the metal cool against my fingers.Snip. A chunk of hair falls free, along with the brush, and oh—the feeling is new.
Liberating.
I hold up the severed strands, watching them shimmer under the light.
This isn’t simply my hair—it’s been my identity my whole life. Now, between the pads of my fingers, it’s simply fragments of my past self.
The Sinclair.
My signature look since I was eleven onClubhouse. The hairstyle that made me millions in hair care commercials, that made me Diamond Essence’s ambassador for over a decade.
But gosh, it was like wearing a crown made of chains. It’s beautiful and suffocating. I’ve spent years taming it, styling it, forcing it into submission.
And now, one more cut couldn’t hurt.
“Screw. This.” I punctuate each word and snip at it again. Then I hesitate.
Maybe I’m making a massive mistake? Should I text Heather to let her know? And what would Amara think if she saw this? What about Dante?
No. I’m not a child who needs her agent’s permission to get a haircut.
I have control in this film, and the haircut could be a marvelous addition to Robyn’s character. If Amara doesn’t see it that way, then there are incredible wigs out there.
And Dante? He’ll love it because I’m going to love it.
Doubt tries to creep in; I push it away.
This is my hair. My choice. I get to do whatever I want to it.
I keep cutting, unevenly, definitely too short in places.
Snip.
Snip.
SNIP.
