The Beauty Gone Bald

          Michiko inhaled deeply, letting the spring wind pour into her lungs like a current feeds to a river's gentle flow. Around her stood tall oak trees, their leaves turned a bright pastel pink to signify the season's transition; spring, at last, had arrived. And Michiko sat cross-legged on the edge of the wood-plank porch, isolated from her family—still sleeping inside the house—and surrounded by nature in full bloom. The pink petals cascaded from the trees and down to the river, shedding hastily and creating a stir of pastel confetti in the air. It whooshed past Michiko, blowing her thick black hair in her face. She brushed the strands from her eyes, tucking her overgrown bangs behind her ear, and fixated her gaze on the little wooden box she'd brought out with her. Today, on this early spring morning, it was finally her time.

          Within the box, she knew, was an old family keepsake. A sacred tradition of mind, body, and soul. As she removed the wood-carved lid, the morning sun glinted off of its sharp, steel blade. One of her slender hands reached out to take it by the wooden handle and examine it closer. The head of a dragon whittled onto its dark oak hilt, its scaly body spiraling up into an impossibly sharp, pristine metal blade crafted generations ago to be used for none other than this instrument—this folding razor—of her family's lineage. Such precise craftsmanship, aged like a fine wine.

          And today was Michiko's eighteenth birthday. Today was at last her turn to continue the family's tradition. Michiko tied a long ponytail from her waist-length hair and would delay no further. She dipped the razor into the river in front of her and stared into the blade's dripping reflection, inhaling a deep breath of courage and determination, letting the air fill her lungs entirely.

          For a moment, she just held her breath and kept her eyes shut. She let the spring breeze pass her by once again. Whoosh... And when the right moment struck, she exhaled, releasing all of her doubts, and began chopping away at her waist-length ponytail, grasping it tightly with one hand and slicing with the other. Left to right she persisted, like a see-saw against the trunk of a spring-blossom tree. She was by no means a professional hairdresser (yet), but the style she was after called for no high understanding of the craft. As her grandfather always told her, one only needed patience, willpower, and a capable instrument to hack away at the hair on their head, reducing further and further until it was shorn to mere stubble— the style adorned by her family's boys and girls alike as a final stepping stone toward their man- or womanhood.

          And those three core factors burned brightly within her chest. Very soon, Michiko's silky ponytail was severed from the rest of her head entirely—shhhhhhik. Her remaining locks bounced onto her cheeks, reaching down only to her neck's nape. She brought the long ponytail around the front and let it drop onto her lap, onto the soft fabric of her springtime kimono. In the river's clear reflection, she saw her hair cut somewhat sloppily into a haphazard bob.

          Never before, Michiko reflected, have I worn it so short. She stroked the soft remnants of her ponytail slowly before letting it drift gently into the water. Piece by piece she let it go, just as a cherry blossom's petals fall from the branch and into the river as one part of a whole. Michiko ran both hands through her newly-cropped hair, surprised by how fast it was for them to reach their jaggedly-cut ends. She tucked a portion behind her ear and admired her reflection. It felt healthy; revitalizing, even. To be freed of those nasty split ends at long last.
          Maybe I'll let my hair grow back into something like this once I'm done. She smiled, savoring the feeling for as long as possible, keeping her eyes shut and running her hands through her luscious, shortened locks, stroking down to the back of her neck and feeling its gentle curve before letting her hands fall back into her lap and gently clasp together.

          And now, Michiko knew, comes the most daunting step. For this, she rolled up her sleeves and bent over the river's reflection as she began to soak her hair in its watery embrace. She went in for a few scoops from the river, creating ripples in its shimmering surface until her shortened, lush locks were left thoroughly drenched, her scalp underneath tingling from the water's ice-cool embrace combined with the brisk breeze bouncing off the surface and onto Michiko's wet, soft-featured face.