Ammanda Selethia Moore (they/elle) is a non-binary poet and writer who also teaches English at Norco College. They have had dozens of publications in venues such as Synchronized Chaos, Literary Yard, and The Journal of Radical Wonder. They live with their partner in sunny southern California. Follow their exploits @prof.ammanda on Instagram.

Consequences

By Ammanda Selethia Moore

Some Pentecostal groups have a unique restriction for women that prohibits them from cutting their hair. They believe that a woman’s hair is her glory and should not be cut or trimmed in any way. In addition to long hair, Pentecostal women wear long dresses or skirts and don’t wear jewelry or makeup. These are all parts of “Holiness Standards” meant to separate themselves visibly from anyone not in the church.

            I absolutely had to get out of the church. The first sign was my haircut. I’d managed to hide my haircut for two days by wearing it in braids. On the way to a barbecue with family friends from church, I decided to risk it and wear my blonde hair down with a headband on.

I walked past Dad and nothing. I smiled, maybe it wasn’t that obvious since my hair was still long.

Mom walked up behind me. At first she was focused on something else, probably yelling for everyone to come downstairs and leave. But then she noticed my hair, cut jagged in my failed attempt to cut a straight line across. It was immediately obvious to her since uncut hair usually ends in a natural V.

“What in the world? You’ve cut your hair?!” Mom reached out and grabbed it, as if holding the hair at the end would make it instantly grow back. “Honey, your daughter has cut her hair!” Mom’s voice was stern at first and then wavered, on the verge of tears.

“What?” Dad stormed into the room. “This is unacceptable.” He looked into my eyes for a long time.

“That’s it,” he said, “Do you want us to take away your tuition money for college? Is that what you want?”

I squirmed under his intense gaze. I hadn’t thought it through, cutting my hair; I just knew that I needed to do it. My brothers had been kicked out of the house for less. Would they really take away my tuition money for college? Without it, I had no way to pay, no job or work experience, no established credit… I was sunk.

“No…” I said. School meant everything to me. It would be my way out. I looked back and forth from Dad to Mom. They were serious, but I also knew they already sent the money to my university.

“You will follow the rules of this house, young lady!” He said, threatening to take it all away: girls like Tina who liked to joke with me and stroke my arm suggestively, boys like Andrew, who groped me while making out behind the science classroom, my favorite English professor, who encouraged us to find connections between art and Shakespeare, and the possibility of ever getting out of this fucking church.