Untangled

The rat was watching her again. 

Kiara did not know for sure if it was the same rat, or if the little buggers had gone out of their way to establish some kind of rotating rodent guard. The image of miniature legions of rats marching through the halls in custom-fitted suits of armor appeared in Kiara’s mind, and she fought back a shudder. 

What she did know for certain was that every time she perched on the bathroom countertop to brush and braid her hair-before leaving the house, before sitting down to do her homework, before helping her mother in the kitchen, before bed-a rat was there: its dark slimy body splayed out menacingly in the alcove between the shower and the door, beady black eyes tracing Kiara’s every movement. 

There would be no escape for her, though. Not unless her parents agreed to let her cut her hair short, and that was about as likely as the sun forgetting to rise. 

Ever since Kiara was old enough to remember, Kiara’s mother had fawned over her daughter’s dark shiny hair. Boasting to everyone from their relatives to random street vendors about how the thick, wavy strands were sometimes onyx, sometimes mahogany, occasionally hazel, and in the right type of light, shimmering bronze! Her father did not care much for aesthetics or colors, but even he would affectionately pat her head, awed at the silky smooth texture. If anyone had bothered to ask Kiara herself, she would have shrugged and said she thought it looked black and felt, well, hairy. 

As Kiara grew older and started attending school, her indifferent attitude towards her hair gradually morphed into one of exasperation. Her friends kept reaching out to pet her braid, holding it up to their own scalps, even going so far as to swat each other on the bottom with it. Bullies would tug her pigtails relentlessly, giggling to each other about how many pencils they could tie into the loose ends. Teachers were even worse. Their fingers poking and prodding, ensuring every stray hair was tucked neatly away to meet the requirements of the school’s dress code. 

To ensure she warded off the evil eye, Kiara’s parents would insist she wrap her braid in a tight coil at the nape of her neck every morning. Then, to make sure her hair did not become damaged, Kiara’s mother would lather her scalp with homemade pastes of egg yolks, rosemary oil, coconut oil, even apple cider vinegar. Every day, after school Kiara would be forced to sit in front of the bathroom sink while doing her homework so her mother could unfurl her braid, comb it gently with her fingers, and apply the day’s concoction. Kiara would then be stuck in the bathroom until her hair dried, which could sometimes take hours. The rats had come to relish in this stretch of waiting time, when Kiara could not so much as turn her head too far in one direction, much less shoo them away. They would come in small packs now, writhing forward to nudge Kiara’s toes with their wet noses, tickle her fingers with their long whiskers, sometimes perching on her textbooks and urinating on her assignments. Occasionally, Kiara fell asleep as she read, and woke to find a rat curled around her neck, dozing on her shoulder or chewing on the collar of her shirt. She would call for her father, scared the rat would bite her if she tried to touch it, but by the time he arrived, the infernal creature had scuttled out of sight. 

Once Kiara graduated university with a dual degree in business and art history, she ignored her parents’ not-so-subtle efforts to arrange her wedding and accepted a position as an assistant museum conservator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The job paid well, took her halfway around the world from a parade of increasingly disappointing suitors, and best of all, required short hair. After convincing her parents, Kiara sat for one final tortuous braiding session before packing her bags, bidding the rat militia one final scathing glare, and let the door of her childhood home creak shut behind her. 

On her first night in New York City, Kiara did not accept her roommate’s invitation to go to her second favorite club’s reopening. Instead, she did the one thing no first-time New Yorker has ever done on their first night in the city: book a haircut. 

Kiara arrived at the hair salon an hour early, sat anxiously in the plastic chair until her name-or a conglomeration of similar sounding syllables-was called by the receptionist. 

When the stylist asked her what she wanted, Kiara responded, “All of it, gone. I want all of it gone.” 

“What, you mean a trim or, like, a bob?”

“No,” Kiara said, holding up a mass of curls from the root and miming her fingers cutting it clean off, “All of it, gone.”

“Are you sure, sweetie?”

“Yes,” Kiara snapped with so much ferocity that the stylist jumped back a few inches in fear.

“Okay, if you’re sure. There’s no going back now.”

As the stylist began snipping away at Kiara’s hair, Kiara watched intently, all her earlier nerves replaced by eagerness. When the first clump of pitch black hair hit the linoleum floor, Kiara felt a bone-deep weight loosen in her chest. She breathed full and deep, feeling her shoulders loosen fully for the first time in years. With every snip, the swirl of hair around Kiara’s feet grew, yet the tension in her spine only lessened. Vertebrae that had hunched inward to compensate for the weight of pounds and pounds of thick hair finally stretched to their natural length. Once the stylist was finished, Kiara was left with less than half an inch of hair on her head. She ran her fingers over it and sighed with contentment. As the salon staff wondered what to do with the excess of hair strewn across their floor, Kiara paid the receptionist and skipped-for the first time in her life-down the stairwell and onto the rain soaked street. For once, she could feel the rain drops on her scalp. Twirling beneath the awning, her eyes caught on a sight between the stairs and the door. A large black rat, shielding her children from the downpour. Its beady eyes took one look at Kiara’s shorn head and promptly turned away. Kiara didn’t spare the rodent a second glance, continuing out the door and down onto street. Unbound. Unbothered. Unafraid.