Ever since she was little, Maya refused to have her hair cut.
She only allowed me to trim the ends of their hair every few months.
Even then, she remained stiff as a board on her kitchen chair, watching every snip of the scissors in the mirror, as if I were suddenly going to cut off fifteen centimeters instead of one centimeter.
At the age of 10, her hair reached well past her waist.
They were thick, dark, and almost impossible to tame on damp mornings.
Washing them took forever.
Drying them took even longer.
Every evening, she would sit between my knees while I untangled her hair from bottom to top.
At home, Félix and I called her Rapunzel.
"Rapunzel, come and have your breakfast."
"Rapunzel, you need to clean your tower."
"Rapunzel, please stop leaving wet towels on the floor."
She always rolled her eyes, but she loved that nickname.
I knew that because once, when Félix called her Maya instead, she corrected him.
"You forgot 'Rapunzel'."
Her hair wasn't just something that had grown on her.
It was part of the image she had of herself.
The school had never been as kind to her as we were.
Maya was discreet.
She stayed in her corner.
She only raised her hand when she was absolutely sure of her answer.
She usually spent recess reading near the edge of the playground.
Some children in her class had already made fun of her.
They said her hair looked like a curtain.
A boy said it looked like she was hiding behind it.
Another child would pull on her braid as soon as the teacher turned her back.
The school was aware.
Felix and I had met Maya's teacher twice and had spoken to the principal Susan once.
Each time, we were told the same thing.
The students had been warned.
The staff were going to keep a closer eye on things.
We were going to deal with this behavior.
And for a moment, it seemed to stop.
Maya no longer came home with her braid half undone.
Elle a arrêté de demander à rester à la maison les jours où le même groupe d’enfants avait cours de sport avec elle.
Je me suis convaincue que le problème était réglé.
J’aurais dû savoir que les enfants ne disent pas toujours aux adultes quand la méchanceté change de forme.
Hier après-midi, j’étais dans la cuisine en train de préparer le dîner quand j’ai entendu la porte d’entrée s’ouvrir.
« Maya ? », ai-je appelé.
Pas de réponse.
J'ai posé le couteau.
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