My Boyfriend Cut Off My Hair, So I Gave Up on Him
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On the day of my final interview for the Yale scholarship, my childhood best friend, Carter, handed me a carton of chocolate milk.
I drank every drop, touched that he’d remembered. When I woke up, the hair I’d been growing for ten years was scattered all over the floor.
The prettiest girl in school twirled her scissors and smiled at him. “Your mom’s sleeping pills work great. I practically shaved the pig bald.”
He leaned against the doorframe, his voice flat. “It’s not like you were ever pretty anyway.”
When I was eight, he promised to marry me once my hair reached my waist.
That day, I dried my tears and gave back the ring his grandmother had saved for “Carter’s bride.”
Later, he waited outside his Yale dorm all day, only to learn that I’d gone to Stanford, three thousand miles away.
I drank every drop, touched that he’d remembered. When I woke up, the hair I’d been growing for ten years was scattered all over the floor.
The prettiest girl in school twirled her scissors and smiled at him. “Your mom’s sleeping pills work great. I practically shaved the pig bald.”
He leaned against the doorframe, his voice flat. “It’s not like you were ever pretty anyway.”
When I was eight, he promised to marry me once my hair reached my waist.
That day, I dried my tears and gave back the ring his grandmother had saved for “Carter’s bride.”
Later, he waited outside his Yale dorm all day, only to learn that I’d gone to Stanford, three thousand miles away.
















































