Ever since I could remember, my hair has always been really long. The last time my father measured it, when I was eleven, it stretched 40 feet in length. I think it’s at least twice that length now that I’m seventeen.

When I was a little girl, I used to like to wrap myself in it. (Nobody knows this, but I still do that sometimes, whenever I’m feeling sad or lonely.)

I know many girls don’t like their hair, but I can honestly say I love mine. My hair is the prettiest shade of red, like burnt copper. It’s always been there, like a friend. The only friend I’ve ever known. Mom really didn’t like me hanging out with the other kids in town much when I was little. She especially didn’t like me playing in the woods near our house. Mom was always on top of me, worried I was going to hurt myself or something. Once she found me outside holding a pair of dad’s shears and all hell broke loose.

I guess you can say she’s overprotective of me. But now she’s taken it a little too far. It’s time for me to take a stand.