Hello Compilers, 

I have this thing that at the beginning of each new school year: I get a new piercing and haircut. I never planned to do this — it just sort of happened. At the start of my senior year, I decided to cut my hair from my sternum to my jawline and get a new cartilage piercing. The piercing ended up falling out a month after I got it, but the short hair was here to stay. 

Come December, it had grown to my collarbones at an awkward length and I decided I needed it cut as short as I could go. Me and my mom go to the same hairdresser, so we decided to book back-to-back appointments. 

The hairdresser we go to has an in-home salon so she can be close to her two kids, a six-year-old boy and a four-year-old girl. The boy is extremely shy, but his sister makes up for it. Every time I go over to get my haircut, she runs around in her pink dresses with her Barbie dolls and pops her head into the salon to check in on everyone. She would look up at me with the same curiosity and reverence I remember looking at older girls with when I was her age. She would slyly smile at me as I would ask her how she was or what her favorite color was before running back to her Barbies. 

However, this last time she got comfortable enough to extend the invitation for me to play with her and her friend. The girls stood in the door frame as soon as the hairdresser took the cape off and swept up my detached hair. I cut my hair above my shoulders to look more “grown-up” and the first thing I did after was play with six-year-olds. They squealed and ran throughout the basement which was their way of initiating a game of tag. I pretended to be slow and let them tag me as I dramatically slipped when attempting to tag them back. They giggled and continued sprinting in circles through the basement — at this point, I was dizzy and very out of breath. 

I watched them as they compromised on who would be the seeker in a game of hide-and-seek. I watched as the friend pretended not to see the hairdresser’s daughter to make her feel proud of her hiding spot. I watched as they haphazardly hugged each other and called each other “best friend.” 

I can’t explain it, but watching these girls made me so emotional and nostalgic for my own girlhood. They have so much life ahead of them, so much potential. What was I like when I was their age? I can remember braiding my friends’ hair, holding hands everywhere we went, wearing dresses and skirts just to go on a walk around the neighborhood. 

I think the thing that struck me about those girls was their carefree joy in the world and amazement at simple wonders. 

This time in my life — which consists of applying to jobs and getting ready to graduate — has been extremely stressful. It’s been hard to find those simple joys when my eyes are glued to my computer swiping through Slack messages and emails, analyzing job postings or second-guessing the word choices on my resume. I have experienced more rejection in these past few months than I ever have in my entire life. It is so easy to feel unsure of yourself at this point — so unsure of the future. 

I feel very far away from that little six-year-old I used to be, but I think she is with me today more than I realize. It is her who notices the pink streaks in the sky as the sun rises. It is her who doodles little hearts on my notebooks. It is her who helps me find those little things in life, the ones that get me through the hard days. 

Right as my mom was finishing her haircut, me and the girls played one last game of duck, duck, goose. The girls kept switching out the names and using adjectives in front of the different birds, “baby duck, BIG duck, small duck, FAT duck.” It was the funniest thing in the world to them. 

When it was my turn, I decided I was not going to call six-year-olds fat — I figured they would hear enough of that from themselves when they get older — so I instead called them “grandma duck” and “grandpa duck.” The horror and embarrassment on these girls’ faces when I said “grandpa duck” was not what I was expecting. They glared up at me and said simply, “I am not a boy.”

As their big blue eyes looked up at me, I felt like I was looking down at that six-year-old girl I used to be. I smiled down at her — nice to see you again, little one. “You’re right.” I said, “You are so much more than a boy. You are a girl, and you are so beautifully capable.” 

I imagine she would have smiled back at me in recognition, as we have the same hairstyle. The short hair was never a new change, but a comfort to remind me of her.