Chapter 3

Time passed quickly. I turned eleven.

Ethan was nine.

During those two years, Ethan performed like a perfect puppet. He didn't make noise or cause trouble. His grades were excellent. He smiled at everyone.

The neighbors in our complex all praised Mom for raising such a well-behaved child.

Every time Mom heard these compliments, she'd show that proud, satisfied smile. Then she'd turn her head and glance at my hair, which had gradually grown long enough to tie into a small ponytail.

As if it were her badge of honor.

Until Halloween when I was eleven.

Ethan was playing with some older kids in the complex when somehow a conflict started. Someone said, "Your sister's a baldy and you're a thief."

Ethan went crazy and lunged at the kid.

He was small and got beaten up badly, his nose and face swollen and bruised.

After the fight, he didn't dare go home. He was afraid that if Mom saw he'd been fighting, she'd open that drawer again.

He ran away.

At eight in the evening, Mom was frantically searching the complex for him.

At ten, she called the police.

At one in the morning, the police found Ethan in a sketchy internet cafe in the old part of town.

He was curled up in a corner of the cafe, covered in dirt, his face streaked with blood. When he saw the police, he didn't ask for help. Instead, he cried and said, "Don't tell my mom... please don't tell my mom..."

The police brought him back around two in the morning.

Mom stood at the door, looking at the filthy Ethan, and said nothing.

The officers gave a few instructions and left.

The door closed.

Mom turned and walked toward the bathroom.

Ethan dropped to his knees with a thud, clutching Mom's legs tightly. "Mom! I was wrong! I didn't cause trouble---they insulted Emma first! I was wrong, Mom. Hit me instead!"

Mom kicked him off.

She came out of the bathroom holding that black electric clipper.

Still connected to its long charging cord.

She walked up to me and shoved the clippers into my hands.

My whole body jerked violently, wanting to throw the thing away like it was electrified.

"Hold it steady." Mom's voice was ice-cold.

By that time, my hair had grown to my shoulders. Every morning I'd spend a long time brushing it in front of the mirror, watching it grow bit by bit. It had finally brought me some comfort.

"Mom..." I looked at her in despair.

"Do it yourself." Mom pointed to the bathroom door. "Go in. Shave it clean. Don't leave a single strand."

"Mom! No!" Ethan let out a heart-wrenching scream from behind. He scrambled forward, trying to snatch the clippers from my hands.

Mom backhanded him with a slap.

The crisp sound was especially piercing in the late-night living room.

Ethan was hit so hard that blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. He collapsed on the floor, unable to get up.

"Emma, I'm counting to three." Mom stared at me, not a trace of warmth in her eyes.

"One."

My hand holding the clippers trembled violently.

"Two."

I turned and walked into the bathroom.

Locked the door.

In the mirror was an eleven-year-old girl. Deathly pale, eyes hollow. Shoulder-length black hair framing her face.

I pressed the power button.

Buzzzzz---

The clippers vibrated in my palm.

I raised my hand and pressed the cold blade against my left temple.

Pushed upward with force.

A long tuft of black hair slid down my cheek and fell into the white sink.

Then the right side.

The top of my head.

The back of my head.

I couldn't see the back, so I just pushed blindly by feel. When I found uneven spots, I'd feel them with my hand and touch them up.

Tears finally broke free, flooding out like a dam had burst.

But I clenched my jaw, not making a single sound.

Fifteen minutes later.

The clippers ran out of battery, let out a weak beep, and stopped.

I looked in the mirror.

Bald.

On my pale scalp were several bloody scratches from the clippers. Uneven and hideously ugly.

The sink was filled with black hair. Water from the dripping faucet soaked it, making it look like a clump of dead, rotting seaweed.

I opened the door and walked out.

The living room was silent as death.

Ethan knelt on the floor. When he looked up and saw my bald head, it was as if his soul had been drained from his body.

He didn't cry out loud.

His mouth hung open, his facial muscles twisting violently, tears streaming silently down his face.

He crawled over to me like a dog, banging his head against my shoes.

"Emma... I'm sorry... I deserve to die... I deserve to die..."

He repeated these words over and over.

Mom stood nearby, watching this scene, and nodded with satisfaction.

She walked over, pulled Ethan up, and wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth.

"Alright, you know you were wrong. Are you going to dare run away again?"

Ethan shook his head desperately, his eyes unfocused.

That night, I lay in bed, running my hand over my bare scalp.

Cold and exposed.

I didn't cry.

My heart had completely died in that moment.

Ethan changed too.

From that day on, he never made another mistake. He became the most well-behaved student in the entire school. His grades were always first. He took over all the household chores and even polished my shoes clean every morning.

The way he looked at me always carried a deep sense of guilt.

And my hair finally began its long journey of growing back.

Everything seemed to return to normal.

But I knew that some things were broken forever.