Martina had always grown up with long hair. It was so long, in fact, that when it was braided and draped over her shoulder, it reached almost below her hips. In the small town of Salta, Argentina, her hair was considered a tradition, and respect by some locals. But over the years, it had become more of a burden than a blessing. She worked as a cashier at a bustling local supermarket, and in a place as hot and dry as Gran Chaco, having long hair was no small feat. The weather was harsh, the sun relentless. It felt like she was always fighting with her hair—either it was too hot to leave down, or it was too tangled to wear in a braid.
More often than not, Martina would tie it up in a tight, heavy bun at the nape of her neck to keep it out of the way. But even that came with its own set of problems. The weight of the bun gave her headaches by the end of the day, and in the dry heat, it would leave her scalp itchy and irritated. Worst of all, washing her hair became an ordeal. The thick mass would take hours to dry, seemed to make the drying process feel endless.
Martina had been raised in a community where cutting one’s hair was considered taboo for women. It was a tradition passed down through generations—long hair was seen as a symbol of femininity and grace, and women were expected to keep it that way. Cutting it short, let alone chopping it off entirely, was almost unthinkable. But as one afternoon, fanning herself with a magazine, Martina looked at her pictures and she couldn’t help but wonder if it was time for a change. She didn’t want to disrespect her family’s traditions, but she was tired. Tired of the long hours at the supermarket, tired of the weight on her shoulders—literally—and tired of feeling like she was a prisoner to her own hair.
It was a thought that had been brewing for a while, but today, as the sun beat down on her, something clicked. “What if I just… cut it?” she thought. The idea seemed radical. Her long, dark hair had been with her for as long as she could remember, and it felt like severing that bond would be like severing a piece of herself. But at the same time, the freedom that cutting it could bring felt like a weight lifting off her chest.
It wasn’t a decision Martina came to lightly. The first time she thought about it, she quickly dismissed the idea. It wasn’t just the fear of breaking tradition that held her back; it was also the fear of doing something irreversible. What if it didn’t look good? What if people looked at her differently?
But as the days passed and the temperature soared, she became more and more determined. She found herself researching ways to cut her hair on her phone during her lunch breaks at the supermarket. She watched countless Instagram reels on trimming long hair, and while she knew she wouldn’t be able to make it look as polished as a professional salon cut, she felt a sense of control—of agency—over her own life. No one could tell her what to do with her hair anymore.
That night, after she finished her shift at the supermarket, Martina made up her mind. She wasn’t going to wait for a stylist to give her a “proper” cut. She would take matters into her own hands.
Standing in her small, dimly lit bathroom, Martina pulled out a pair of hair cutting scissors she had received from her supermarket’s stock clearanace sale a few weeks ago. Her reflection stared back at her, her long hair cascading down her back like a curtain of ink. She felt both exhilarated and terrified. She took a deep breath, and slowly lifted the scissors.
Martina stood in front of the bathroom mirror, her reflection surrounded by the dim light of the small space. She felt a flutter of anxiety in her chest, but her eyes remained focused on the task ahead. Her thick, dark hair, now gathered in front of her, hung in heavy waves past her hips, swaying as if it were alive. She was standing near the wash basin sink, the edge cool against her fingers as she slowly pulled her hair forward. The weight of it was daunting—so much hair that it had to be draped over her shoulder to fit into the mirror’s frame.
Her hand trembled as she lifted the scissors, the blades catching the light as they hovered near her belly. With a deep breath, she cut the first section, right at her waist, aiming to remove a large chunk. The sound was immediate—snip—and then, the long strands began to fall.
Huge sections of hair—almost three feet long—tumbled down like a waterfall, spilling across the floor in soft, weightless waves. Martina stepped back, watching as the long locks landed in a heap. She turned her gaze to the mirror, taking in the change. The cut wasn’t perfect—it was ragged, uneven—but still, her reflection looked different. There was a fresh freedom in the air, a sense of lightness in the room. But as she stood there, still holding the scissors, something inside her clicked. This is my chance. No stopping now.
With newfound resolve, she raised the scissors once again, this time positioning them at her chest, just above her breasts. The decision came quickly, without hesitation. Martina didn’t overthink it—she cut again, this time at a higher level. The scissors snipped through the remaining length of her hair with ease, and another cascade of thick locks fell away. The hair rained down into the sink, filling it in an instant. More and more strands piled up, the sink now overflowing with dark spaghetti like hair snips. The floor quickly became littered with the fallen locks, a blanket of hair spreading out in every direction.
The sight was almost surreal. Her hair, once a defining feature, was now a tangle of messy clippings in the sink and on the floor. But Martina didn’t mind. She couldn’t stop smiling. She raised her eyes to the mirror again, taking in the reflection of her now shorter, uneven hair. It wasn’t the polished bob she’d imagined, but it was undeniably different—lighter, more manageable, and full of possibility. Martina could already feel the freedom in the air around her. Her hair might have been messy, but in that moment, she was anything but.
For a moment, she stared at the discarded length of hair in her hand. It felt surreal. There it was, her once-precious hair, now severed, lying in her palm like an abandoned dream.
But there was no turning back. She couldn’t stop now. With more confidence, Martina once again snipped away 3 more inches. The strands fell around her feet, and with each cut, the weight on her shoulders seemed to lessen. Her scalp felt lighter. She could almost feel the cool air on the back of her neck for the first time in years.
When she had finished cutting, Martina took a step back and surveyed the mess of hair on the floor. The long strands that had once defined her were now lying in pieces on the floor.
Still, there was something missing. The cuts were uneven, and though she had taken great care, the new look wasn’t exactly the polished, shoulder-length bob she had imagined. She knew she needed help—professional help, but that could wait until next time. She then combed her hair, leveled it and cut off the jagged edges smoothing it as much as she could and now it looked quite good. The Salon visit could potentially be postponed until her hair grows a little more.
Martina cleaned up the bathroom, gathering her cut hair into a plastic bag. The next morning, she woke up with a sense of excitement rather than dread. She barely had to do anything to her hair. It was already dry, not a single strand sticking to her neck, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she could run her fingers through it without feeling the tangles.
At the supermarket, her coworkers took notice almost immediately. “Martina, your hair!” Sofia, the bakery cashier, exclaimed, her eyes wide with surprise. “It looks amazing. So fresh!” Martina blushed but smiled. “I decided it was time for a change.”
Her coworker Carina, who had worked there for years, nodded approvingly. “I think you look fantastic. It’s so much more practical for this heat.”
Customers, too, noticed her transformation. A regular shopper, a grandmother named Rosa, smiled warmly as she approached Martina’s register. “You look like a different person, my dear,” she said. “I must say, I think you look much younger with your hair shorter.”
Martina grinned, the compliment filling her with a quiet sense of pride. For the first time in years, she felt free.
And as she stood behind the cashier counter, the cool breeze against her neck, Martina realized that sometimes, the greatest freedom comes when you finally let go.