IRIS
I close the door behind me. My hands tremble a little, already reaching for the ends of my braid, and my legs don’t seem capable of stillness. As eager as I’ve been to find out what my trials will be, now that I’m faced with them, I almost wish for more time.
Sol is standing across the room, staring out the window into the pitch-black hollow. Once the door clicks shut, he turns to face me. He’s smiling, and that eases my nerves a little.
“I’ve done a lot of thinking,” he says, “and I’ve finally decided on your first task.”
“Yeah?”
For a moment I feel ashamed of the conflicting desperation and dread in my voice. Then I remember: This is Sol. My savior. My guide. He knows the darkest parts of me already. He is here to help me. I don’t need to feel ashamed of my feelings around him.
He sits down across from me, mattress creaking as he takes his usual place on the edge of the large bed. “I know you’re eager, and I’m sorry I’ve kept you waiting. But I’m going to keep you in suspense just a tiny bit longer, if you’ll indulge me.”
“Don’t I always?”
“Mm. Don’t know about that. But I’ll take it,” Sol says.
“When I was young, I was a very vain man. I cared so much about having the best clothes, the most toned body, the clearest skin. Hard to believe now, I know, with me looking like some scruffy mountain man.” He grins at me through his bushy beard.
“But I swear, I was a real hottie once. Wait, does your generation call people hotties anymore?”
“Not really.”
“Wow. What happened to always indulging me?” Sol asks with a dramatic sigh. “But you get my point. I spent so much time every single day focusing on my physical form. And then, when I had my epiphany and left New York, I realized I’d spent far too little time focusing on what mattered—my soul.”
I nod along, though the longer it takes for him to tell me my trial, the more fidgety I become.
“Vanity is the enemy of growth. It’s a weed in the garden. To thrive, to bloom, it’s important to separate yourself from your vanities. To destroy those tangible things we cling to, so that all of our attention—every bit of our focus—can be on our spirit.”
“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.
“The thing 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.”
“Not at 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.”
A few minutes later, I find myself standing in the bathroom, staring down at the electric clippers and a pair of kitchen scissors on the counter.
“You can do this,” I murmur to myself. “It’s just hair. You can let it go.”
I swallow as the waters of shame rise in my chest. This fear, this dread, is exactly the problem Sol sees in me. I’m too attached to this material form. And to my past.
I remember getting my hair done at the salon before my first homecoming dance; I didn’t have a date or anything, but looking in the mirror, I felt truly pretty for the first time.
I remember my childhood best friend sticking butterfly clips in my hair during sleepovers.
I remember my dad helping me tie rainbow ribbons into my hair for my first Pride parade.
I remember that his hair was the same pale gold as mine.
None of that matters now, though.
I pick up the scissors and close my eyes as I grasp the braid Lily did for me this morning in my other hand. I hold the scissors to the base of the braid. I have to do it before the shame of this attachment fills my lungs, before it drowns me.
I begin to chop.
I keep my eyes closed, knowing it doesn’t matter how uneven the cut is.
It’ll all be gone soon anyway. My hands don’t feel like mine.
Like someone else’s hands manipulating the scissors.
I don’t feel connected to my body at all, actually.
The cutting takes time—these aren’t scissors meant for hair, after all—but after a moment, I feel the braid I am holding in my left hand become loose, swinging free of its former confines.
I drop the handful of silky locks to the floor before I can look at it.
I have to open my eyes for the shaving, though.
There is no way around it. I turn the clippers on, their steady buzz like a swarm of wasps closing in.
I press the blade to my scalp, just above my right ear, and begin to shave.
Pass by pass, section by section, I shear off my newly short and jagged hair.
When it is done, I try to do another pass, try to clean up the areas that are uneven or patchy, but after a moment or two, I give up. It doesn’t matter anyway. This is the point of the trial. It isn’t about having a nice, even buzz cut—it is about not caring. Letting it go.
Pulling the weeds.
I turn off the clippers and set them down. My eyes fall on the pile of blond hair at my feet. “See?” I mumble. “Done. That wasn’t so bad.” But there is a lump forming in my throat. It only gets bigger when I look up, inspecting myself in the mirror for the first time.
It isn’t that the girl staring back at me looks bad. She doesn’t. If I saw her on the street, I wouldn’t think twice about her super-short buzz cut. I might even think she’s cool.
That is the problem, though. She doesn’t look like me.
I turn away from the mirror when the girl looking back at me begins to cry. That’s when I really know she is a stranger.
Kneeling down, I grab the dustpan from the lower cabinet and sweep up all the hair that has fallen onto the floor. My cheeks are warm and wet as I dump the cut locks into the trash.
But at least it is done now.
At least now it isn’t holding me back, and I can stay in the sunshine.