Chapter 1

My mom always said a buzzcut is the best hairstyle any girl could have.

"Clean, low-maintenance, and it won't attract boys," was her constant refrain.

From childhood through my teens, I walked around with a completely shaved head, enduring strange looks from literally everyone I encountered.

After high school graduation, I finally put my foot down—threatening something drastic just to win the right to grow my hair out.

But the night before college move-in day, my mom snuck into my room while I was sound asleep and shaved my head completely bald. Again.

A blood-curdling scream echoed through the bathroom that morning.

I clutched my freshly shaved scalp—now an ashy gray stubble—and lost it completely, screaming like a lunatic.

Mom stormed out of the kitchen, spatula in hand, and kicked me hard in the lower back without warning.

"What the hell are you screaming about? It's the crack of dawn—you trying to wake up the whole damn neighborhood?"

The kick sent me stumbling forward, my stomach slamming against the edge of the sink.

I barely felt the pain. I whirled around, words spilling out in a frantic mess.

"Why can't I have hair like a normal person? Is having hair suddenly a crime? Do I need to literally die before you're happy?"

Mom just snorted.

"Go ahead and die then. Never seen a kid who threatens their own mother with suicide over something so stupid."

Her flat, emotionless tone left me feeling like I'd punched a cloud. No impact.

It reminded me of our last standoff. The razor blade had already broken my skin, just centimeters away from my artery. Only then did Mom reluctantly nod, agreeing that my hair would be my choice going forward.

I thought I'd finally won a battle on my eighteenth birthday.

All summer, I watched each new hair sprout with joy. I endured the maddening itch of new growth, daydreaming about college life ahead.

I was so happy, so fulfilled.

I actually believed my parents loved me. Maybe they just hadn't realized how much my hair mattered to me. When confronted with my breakdown, they had finally compromised.

What a joke.

Mom never cared if I lived or died. She just wanted to give me hope first, then crush it with her own hands. All to reinforce her authority—to remind me I'd never escape her control.

Our argument brought Dad into the bathroom.

He froze when he saw my head, then frowned at Mom. "Didn't we agree to let her grow it out? Why'd you shave it again?"

"So what if I did? It's for her own good!" Mom fired back defiantly.

" You want her suffering in the heat with that messy mop in college? Remember how filthy she gets! Her hair would stink in no time!"

Dad scratched his stubble, playing peacemaker as always.

"Alright, alright, enough drama. Your mom means well," he muttered. "Hurry up and get ready—we've got a train to catch. Don't forget you're starting college today!"

"Means well? How exactly is this 'meaning well'?"

Dad's wishy-washy attitude felt like ice water dumped over my head.

I pointed at Mom's perfectly maintained, glossy black hair. "I'm eighteen—a legal adult! Don't I deserve to control my own hair? If being bald is so great, why isn't SHE shaving HER head?"

SMACK.

Mom's hand cracked across my face.

"You ungrateful bitch! I've raised you for eighteen years! Fed you! Clothed you! And this is how you speak to me?"

"I've always taught you that successful women get ahead on brains and ability—not hair! The second you get into that military academy, all you care about is your precious hair? You're not interested in education—you just want to seduce men! Looking for some rich boyfriend so you don't have to work!"

Mom was getting more worked up, grabbing my college acceptance letter and threatening to tear it up.

"If that's how it is, we'll cancel everything! No college for you! Stay home where I can watch you! I don't need to worry about you becoming some homewrecker and getting yourself killed!"

I scoffed internally. Not everyone is like you, Mom.

Chapter 2

As it turns out, Dad was originally my mom's best friend's boyfriend.

Mom saw his wealthy family and decided to trap him with a pregnancy. Because of her own sketchy past, she assumes every woman in the world is just as conniving—including her own daughter.

It's been her pattern my whole life. Whenever I show the slightest resistance to her authority, she identifies what matters most to me and uses it as a weapon.

When I was six, I refused to eat scrambled eggs that gave me breathing problems. She destroyed the craft project I'd spent all night making, then called my teacher claiming I was a liar. My favorite teacher believed her and transferred me to another class.

At twelve, I pushed away her hand when she tried to shave my head. She responded by cutting up every sanitary pad in the house. Even when I knelt crying and apologizing, she forced me to go to school in blood-stained pants.

When I was fourteen, I refused to hand-wash her clothes in cold water. She cut off my allowance completely. If I hadn't found a part-time job, I probably would've starved that winter.

And now this.

She knew getting into the college was my greatest dream. To save my chance at college, I had no choice but to surrender again, dropping to my knees.

"Mom, I'm sorry! I was wrong! I was just upset!" I begged. "Please don't tear up my acceptance letter! It's my fault! I shouldn't have talked back! I'm really sorry!"

I lost count of how many times I apologized before she finally tossed the letter at my feet, like a queen pardoning a criminal.

"Fine. Go pack your things," she said dismissively.

After kneeling so long, my legs were numb.

I struggled to stand, instinctively looking for help, but Dad had already removed himself from the conflict—sitting on the couch, casually sipping coffee like nothing was happening.

As punishment for my "disrespect," Mom confiscated all the savings from my part-time job.

Worst of all, she removed every hat and scarf from my luggage, ensuring I'd have to walk into college with my patchy, butchered scalp exposed. She wanted me to become the campus laughingstock on day one—a reputation that would follow me for four years.

The registration area was packed with new students. Everyone who saw my shaved head immediately started whispering.

Some thought I had a serious illness causing hair loss. Others wondered if I had infected sores that might be contagious. A few suggested I was just an attention-seeker.

But without exception, they all kept their distance.

No matter how many years pass, I'll never get used to those looks.

I kept my head down while Mom dragged me through the crowds, handling all my paperwork—filling out forms, collecting my student ID, micromanaging every detail. Dad silently carried my heavy luggage behind us.

And there I was, sporting my bizarre bald head, empty-handed while they bustled around. To outsiders, I looked like their precious, spoiled princess.

That's always been their strategy. Acting sacrificial and hardworking in public ensures that whenever conflicts arise, everyone automatically takes their side.

After completing registration, we went to my dorm room. The moment we met my roommates, Mom launched right in:

"Hello girls, this is my daughter, Riley. She'll be your classmate. Her brain doesn't work very well, so I hope you'll look after her."

My new roommates exchanged uncomfortable glances, looking from my shaved head to my mom, awkwardly nodding to be polite.

Encouraged by their response, Mom cheerfully began making my bed while sharing every embarrassing story from my childhood.

I pressed my lips together, unable to defend myself, just silently repeating: She'll leave soon. Just get through today and she'll be gone. The next four years, if I work hard, I'll never have to go home again. I'll be free.

But as evening approached and all my roommates had left to explore campus, Mom and I were still sitting there, staring at each other.

Finally, I gathered my courage to ask: "Mom, what time is your train? Isn't Dad waiting for you at the station?"

"What train? I'm not leaving!"

Chapter 3

Mom's voice dripped with smug satisfaction, like she was bragging to her own daughter.

"Didn't I tell you? I got approved for that promotion at work. My interview with corporate headquarters is next week, and your school happens to be close to the interview location. I'll just leave after that. Perfect timing—I can stay with you and see how you're adjusting to college life."

My heart sank. I quietly protested, "Mom, the school doesn't allow parents to stay in dorms. You should get a hotel room."

My voice was barely audible—I was terrified one wrong word would trigger another violent outburst like at home.

"What do you mean 'not allowed'?" she snapped.

"Don't worry about it! I'll talk to your school administration myself!"

I don't know what she told the dean, but she returned looking triumphant.

My nightmare wasn't over.

I tried comforting myself: Just hang in there. One more week until freedom!

My phone pinged with a notification—the student clubs were hosting a welcome party tonight, encouraging everyone to attend.

For as long as I can remember, I've been insecure about my patchy, shaved head. I habitually made myself invisible in social settings. Throughout school, I rarely joined group activities—even at my high school prom, I was just a wallflower in the corner.

Watching my roommates excitedly choosing outfits, I felt a stab of envy, especially seeing their golden curls—exactly what I'd always dreamed of having.

"What's that? Let me see!" Before I could react, Mom snatched my phone.

"Welcome party?" she said loudly.

My roommates turned toward us, drawn by her sharp voice.

My face burned red as I bit my lip, wishing I could disappear under the covers.

"You're going! Always so lazy, never participating in anything," she declared.

Then she suddenly turned to my roommates, raising her voice:

"Let's all go to the party together tonight! Oh, it's been years since I was in school—I miss that youthful feeling!"

She ran her fingers through her thick, luxurious hair and adjusted her ridiculous fake eyelashes.

My roommates, clearly uncomfortable with this strange, over-the-top woman, mumbled "Okay, okay" and quickly grabbed their bags, practically running out the door.

Suddenly it was just Mom and me in the room.

"Mom, are you really going?" I asked hesitantly.

"Of course! I want to see what kind of people your classmates are. They should get to know you properly." She started pushing me toward the closet.

"Hurry up and get dressed! God, you're so slow—it's infuriating."

After being shoved around, I found myself at the party entrance wearing an outdated purple dress from the last century that didn't even fit anymore.

Night had fallen. Flickering lights spilled from inside, making me squint.

I nervously clutched my dress hem, keeping my head down as a breeze sent chills across my exposed scalp.

"Hey! Look who's here!"

"Holy shit, it's Voldemort!"

Hearing this, I turned to leave.

First day, and already being targeted?

Before I could take a step, a strong hand grabbed me.

"Where do you think you're going? Your classmates are calling you. Are you deaf?!"