I didn’t raise my voice. I took photos instead — the curls on the floor, the scissors on the counter, Theresa’s scrunchie abandoned nearby.
“I’m documenting your babysitting activities,”
I said.
She scoffed.
“You’re overreacting.”
I wasn’t.
Theresa sat shaking on the bathroom floor.
“She said you wanted it short,”
she whispered.
“That isn’t true,”
I told her.
“You get to decide what happens to your body.”
That night, I called my mother.
“She needs to feel consequences,”
I said. Continue reading…