July 18, 2021
Dear Diary,
I'm not sure where the impulse came from, but there I was—standing in front of the mirror. Scissors in one hand, the other clutching a fistful of my hair.
When I say "big chop," I mean BIG. My hair can't even fit into a ponytail now.
All I remember thinking was: It has to go.
No hesitation. No second guessing.
I wanted to go natural, and this was the only way. As the strands fell to the bathroom floor, I noticed something strange—the more hair that fell, the lighter I felt. Not just physically, but deep in my chest, like something was finally unclenching.
For years I told myself I'd do it "one day." One day when I was brave enough. One day when I didn't care what people thought. One day when I had nothing to prove. But today, that "one day" came without warning.
And I didn't ask for permission.
The journey began with a single, fearless snip.
Cutting her hair wasn't unusual—Kyndall had done it before. But this time, it wasn't about a new style or keeping up appearances.
It was about freedom.
She could still remember the first time she ever got her hair straightened. She had been eight years old, sitting on a tall stool in her aunt's kitchen. The smell of burning chemicals hung in the air as the relaxer was smoothed onto her scalp. Her aunt's fingers moved quickly, but not quickly enough to stop the sting.
"Beauty is pain," her aunt had said casually, as if passing down some sacred truth.
Kyndall learned early that beauty—at least the kind the world rewarded—was something you earned through discomfort, through discipline, through altering yourself to fit someone else's definition. And she learned to endure it.
From that day forward, her life became a series of maintenance appointments—flat irons hissing like tiny steam engines, the rhythmic tug of combs through softened hair, and the weekly ritual of wrapping it all up before bed so it would "last."
And for years, she believed it was worth it.
Worth the burns. Worth the hours. Worth the way her natural curls were tamed into silence.
Now, as she stood barefoot in her bathroom, scissors in hand, she realized she was finally ready to hear what her hair had been trying to say all along.
The sound of the blades cutting through thick strands was almost addictive—snip, snip, snip—a clean, satisfying break. Dark curls tumbled into the sink, slid down her forearms, and landed in soft piles on the white tile floor.
She caught sight of her reflection mid-chop. The woman staring back looked half-familiar, half-stranger. Her face seemed sharper, her cheekbones more defined. Her neck—once hidden by cascading hair—was bare and exposed.
It felt like standing naked in front of the world.
By the time she was done, the bathroom floor looked like a battlefield. She stood in the center of it, breathing hard, scissors dangling from her fingers. The air was heavy with the scent of shampoo and the faint metallic tang of steel.
She gathered the cut hair into her hands, not knowing whether to throw it away or keep it like an artifact. In the end, she dropped it into the trash can, watching it fall as if it were something she had outgrown—not just physically, but spiritually.
Her hands trembled—not from regret, but from adrenaline.
She thought about calling someone. Maybe her best friend. Maybe her mother. But she stopped herself.
This moment wasn't for anyone else to validate. It was hers alone.
She ran her fingers through her newly shorn curls. They sprang back immediately, tight coils bouncing with unapologetic defiance. She smiled—small, but real.
Dear Diary,
This feels… different. Not like the other times. Not like a style choice.
I don't think I'm just cutting my hair.
I think I'm cutting ties.
She didn't know it then, but that night would mark the first of many small rebellions. Little moments where she would choose herself over other people's comfort. Moments that would feel dangerous and exhilarating in equal measure.
Later, lying in bed, she could still feel the ghost weight of her hair on her shoulders. Her hands kept drifting up to touch the new length, to test if it was really gone. Every time her fingers met air, she felt a quiet thrill—like she'd gotten away with something forbidden.
She thought of the women she had seen on Instagram and YouTube, smiling into cameras after their big chops, proclaiming their freedom. She had always admired them, but she never thought she'd be one of them.
Now she was.
It wasn't just hair.
It was a declaration.
It was a shedding.
It was an awakening.
And even though she didn't know it yet, this single act would be the spark that set the rest of her transformation on fire.