chapter 2

“THE PIXIE-CUT JIN”

As a kid, my long braided hair felt like home—safe, familiar, always tied by my mother in the soft glow of late afternoons. But when basketball filled my days, that comfort became a burden, and a quiet urge for change began to grow.

One sleepless night, a movie whispered, “When you’re scared to jump, that’s when you should.” So I cut my hair short. People stared, joked, questioned—but I felt lighter, faster, freer. In the mirror, I didn’t see someone new. I finally saw me.

Moments ahead

Pt1: Comfortably Ordinary

I remember the balcony being a stage of small rituals – the golden hour light slipping through the curtain, the faint hum of traffic below, and the gentle pull of my mother’s hands through my hair.

She would sit behind me on a low stool, humming something from an old CD she loved, her fingers parting my hair with practiced ease. The elastic bands always matched my dress – pink when it was Sunday, yellow when she was in a cheerful mood.

My childhood hairstyle was the double pigtail – the most common crown a little girl could wear.

You could walk down any street back then and find at least three other girls with the same pair of swinging tails. We looked like tiny replicas of each other, as if the city had a shared childhood uniform.

Mom adored that look. She said it made me “bright like the morning.” She would spend minutes perfecting the parting, combing until every strand sat neatly in place, tying the ribbons tighter than I preferred. I used to squirm and whine, but I secretly liked the feeling – her touch, the warmth of the moment, the quiet pride in her eyes when she was done.

It was an easy time, when my hair and I belonged exactly where we were. I liked how ordinary it felt – safe, familiar, unremarkably perfect. The boys at school sometimes teased me, saying the ribbons made me look like a cartoon character. But I just laughed along.

Back then, I couldn’t imagine having any other hairstyle. I thought I would keep these pigtails forever – until one day, something shifted.

Pt2. New Me, Old Me

The mirror in the salon was larger than I remembered. It caught everything – the quiet hum of the clippers, the faint smell of hair dye from the next seat, the small tremor in my own hands as I brushed the loose strands from my shoulder. The barber had just trimmed the ends, nothing dramatic, just a maintenance cut. I wiggled my hair and smiled. It still looked like me. The same me I had always been, I love it.

But lately, something inside me had started to stir – a quiet, restless pull that whispered change.

Basketball had become a big part of my life by then, and my long hair was just inconvenient. It stuck to my neck with sweat, got tangled in my jersey collar, and once, during a game, an opponent’s hand accidentally caught it mid-defense. I lost the ball and almost my temper. After that, I started wondering – maybe what I love is holding me back

And then there was this odd fascination with short hair – the kind most boys wore. Sharp edges, clean lines, freedom. I spent nights scrolling through photos of pixie cuts and undercuts, imagining what it would feel like to look in the mirror and see something entirely different. Something bold. But every time the thought got serious, fear came knocking.

What if I looked terrible? What if Mom didn’t like it? What if people laughed? What if I didn’t recognize myself anymore? My long hair had been with me for years – through childhood, through every picture frame and memory. Losing it felt like losing a part of my identity.

Then one night, I couldn’t sleep. My mind was a storm – half occupied by the upcoming match in three days, half tangled in the question of whether to let go. I turned on the TV to distract myself. A movie was playing, something I’d never seen before, and just when I was about to switch channels, a line froze me in place:

“When it feels scary to jump, that’s exactly when you should jump.”

It hit me like a whisper from somewhere deeper than thought.

The next morning, I walked up to Mom and said, “I want to cut my hair short.”

She looked up from her coffee, surprised. “Short? How short?”

“Pixie short,” I said.

Her eyebrows jumped higher than I’d ever seen. “That’s… very short, Jin. Are you sure? You’ve always loved your long hair.”

“I do, I always do. But I have to lose it”

She studied my face for a long moment. “If you’re sure this isn’t a whim, I’ll trust you.”

And that was it. We booked the appointment.

The sound of scissors that day was louder than I expected. Each snip was like cutting away a layer of who I used to be – the careful, comfortable version of myself who always played it safe. When it was done, I ran my fingers through the cropped strands. My neck felt lighter, the air cooler. For a moment, I almost didn’t recognize the person in the mirror. Then I smiled, wide and real.

Finally the matchday came. I stepped onto the court for the match. Heads turned. Teammates gasped. Someone joked that I looked like a rookie from a boy’s team. I laughed it off, tied my shoelaces tighter, and played one of the best games of my life.

It felt like the court was breathing with me – no hair in my eyes, no second thoughts in my head. Just me, moving fast, free, certain.
Of course, the teasing didn’t stop. It never really does. But it didn’t sting anymore. I wasn’t hiding behind anything.

That haircut was more than a change in style. It was my first real leap of faith. A reminder that fear doesn’t always mean danger – sometimes it just means growth.

And that day, as the final whistle blew and the team cheered, I realized something: the truest version of me had been waiting all along – I just needed the courage to let her out.