“Have I been acting vain?” I ask nervously.
“Iris, you’re not in trouble.” His blue eyes soften, bringing a gentleness to his expression. “There are weeds in your garden, yes, but no more than the average teenage girl. But you’re not an average teenage girl. You’re special. You’re working on enlightenment. And to continue with your journey, you need to pull those weeds.”
“Right,” I say. My palms feel sweaty.
“I wouldn’t call you vain in the traditional sense,” he continues. “But I do think you have a deep attachment to your physical body. One part of it in particular.”
My fingers tighten around the bundle of pale gold locks at the end of my long braid.
Sol nods. “So you know what I am referring to.”
I do know. And the fact that I know makes a pit of guilt open in my stomach. Even though nothing in Sol’s expression is harsh, even though he says I’m not in trouble, the fact that my attachment to my hair has been noticed makes me want to crawl under this chair and hide.
“Thething is, our bodies are fleeting,” he says. “Most people wrap so much of their identity in how they look. And then, when those looks fade, when their bodies change, they’re left with fragile souls because they never took the time to grow spiritually.” He stands and goes to the wooden bedside table. “I want you to grow. To be so much more than just your pretty hair.” He opens the drawer and removes a small object, a bundle of shiny plastic and metal. “You burned your old name. You stopped letting it and your past define you so that you can grow beyond it. Now I’m asking you to do the same with your hair.”
I watch the object in his hand as he moves to sit back down on the bed. I’m mesmerized by it.
Clippers.
“You want me to shave my head?” I ask, the words coming out as hardly more than a whisper.
“I can tell you’re hesitant,” he says. “And I understand. I really do. I know you’ve resisted cutting your hair in the past.”
“Yeah,” I say, lowering my gaze. “People have always told me it was nice, and playing with it or having someone else mess with it has always been comforting, so I’ve never wanted to cut it. That must sound silly.”
“Notat all,” he says, voice reassuring. “It’s sentimental. It brings you comfort. Even now, I see how often you have Lily braiding it. That’s not silly, Iris.”
I hear the mattress creak, hear his footsteps on the wood floor again as he comes over to me. His fingers run over my braid before hooking beneath my chin, turning my face upward to look at him again.
“But clinging to the past, to those shallow, sentimental comforts, is just as detrimental to your growth as vanity,” he tells me. “You have so much potential, sweetheart. I’d hate to see it squandered because you can’t let go of your attachment to this physical body—and to your past.”
I open my mouth to say something, but the words get stuck in my throat. Tears sting my eyes, and I swallow.
Sol’s hand falls away from my face, and he takes a step back from me with a sigh.
“But maybe I’m wrong,” he says, starting to turn away from me. “Maybe you’re not ready for this.” He walks toward the window, back fully toward me now. “I’d hoped, after a full year here, you’d have grown enough to handle these trials. But if not, maybe I’ve failed you.”
“No.” I shake my head furiously. “You haven’t failed me. Sol,you saved me. You’ve taught me so much. I’m—I’m just nervous. But please, don’t doubt how grateful I am.”
Sol says nothing. Just continues to stare out the dark window.
Fear twists in my gut. I can’t lose this family. I can’t leave the hollow. This is home. The only home I have. The only place I am safe.
“I … I can do it. I can pull the weeds.” I twist my braid around my hand one more time before letting it go. “I’ll cut it. Shave it. Get rid of it all. I’m ready.”
“Hmm.”
I can hear the drumming of Sol’s fingers on the windowsill. His other hand hangs at his side, still holding the clippers. My eyes can’t pull away from them. I’m holding my breath, desperately hoping that it isn’t too late.
That the sun isn’t about to set.
“All right,” Sol says after a long moment. “But only if you’re sure. If you really feel I’ve prepared you enough for this.”
“You have,” I say. “I can do it. I’ll … do it now, even.”
He turns to face me, stepping closer again, hand outstretched, presenting the clippers like a dreadful offering.
“All right. Let’s pull the weeds, then.”
