"Wake up, honey!" your mom calls. You murmur a muffled protest through your bedsheets and pull them tighter around you.
It's another Tuesday morning, and like all Tuesday mornings, you're due in school. You go through the usual expressions of annoyance, mashing your face into your pillow and rolling in bed until you force yourself up.
Today, though, something new suddenly alters your routine. You see something strange. Weird out of focus lines appear in your vision. You also feel a tickle on your forehead and ears.
You scratch your head. It feels different. Something about your hair.
Random memories from yesterday slowly emerge as you stumble like a zombie into the bathroom. You vaguely remember a few things that struck you as odd yesterday, and wonder if this has anything to do with those. It all hits you at once when you look into the mirror.
Your haircut is clearly not right. It's three or four inches too long, almost totally covering your ears and forehead. The hair in the back is so long you can see it peeking out around your neck. Not only is it longer, but it looks fluffier and its usual dark brown color is a bit lighter. You try to brush your new bangs out of your eyes, but they fall across them persistently, tickling your forehead and bothering your eyelashes.
Your mother calls you again, and you realize you have to hurry up if you're going to make the bus. You take a quick shower, noticing how different your hair feels on your head when it gets wet. It takes longer to dry, too, and you are forced to head downstairs with a slightly damp shaggy mop.
You join your family at the breakfast table. Your dad has his nose in a business journal, and your sister is poking her eggs repeatedly, sleep still evident in her eyes.
"I think I'm gonna need a haircut," you say once you're halfway through your meal.
Your mom is the only one who looks up at you. "A cut? I thought you were trying to grow it out."
"Why would I do that?" you ask, confused at her unexpected response.
"Because it might look pretty?" your mom suggests plainly, as if the answer should be obvious to you.
You giggle. "Guys aren't supposed to look 'pretty,'" you say before taking another bite of your waffle.
"I was only saying," your mom says, returning to her breakfast. "It's your hair, and you can do what you want with it. Do you want me to call for an appointment?"
"No, I can swing by after school and get it cut." Your barber usually does walk-ins on weekdays.
As you continue to eat, you begin to have second thoughts about cutting your hair. You wonder if growing it out would be a good look. Maybe that could be the thing to change up your life a little bit.
You board the bus with images of yourself sporting a ponytail or a braid, waltzing about the school hallways and attracting all sorts of attention. It makes you giggle again.
Your friend Jake, sitting next to you, asks "What's so funny?"
"Take a wild guess," you say, running your hand through your soft hair for emphasis.
He doesn't seem to take the hint. "I don't know. What?"
"My hair. It's long."
Jake looks at you, trying to understand but failing. "It's not long. Actually it's kind of short, compared to most styles."
Jake's ambivalence starts to frustrate you. "Yeah, most girl styles," you reply.
"Whatever," Jake says, turning away. It's his typical cold shoulder response telling you he no longer cares for the topic of conversation. Feeling like you somehow offended him, you strike up a different conversation, this time about video games, which lasts the two of you until the end of the bus ride.
At school, you get off the bus and say goodbye to Jake. Turning to him, your words get stuck in your throat when you notice you have to look up to look into his eyes.
He sees you looking at him strangely. "What is it?"
"You wearing boots or something?" you ask. You look down and see he's only wearing sneakers.
"What?"
"You're taller today."
Jake's eyes shift about in confusion. "Am I?"
"We're the same height. Except now you look a couple inches taller."
"I don't know what you're talking about. You've always been a little shorter," Jake said.
You know that's not true. Why would Jake say that, and why is he taller than you?
"Don't tell me you're getting self-conscious about your height," he says when you don't respond. "You're still average for a junior. Just be glad you're not like Littlefoot over there." Jake points to a small, pudgy nerd in the corner of the school yard. He's accepting cash from a guy on the football team in exchange for what looks like a freshly prepared book report. "Littlefoot" was called as such due to his 5'0" stance. That, and his arms and legs looked like they belonged on a brontosaurus. You've considered going to him for help on some of your more difficult math and science assignments. He charged by the page for essays and worksheets, but you'd rather fail without cheating than pass with a guilty conscience.
By the time you turned back to talk to Jake again, he's gone. You scan the crowd of students, but you're not tall enough to get a good enough look. You shrug and hurry to your locker, hoping you can make it to homeroom on time.