Even more like me
The moment the scissors close around the thick curl, it’s done.
No turning back.
Mel watches the severed lock slip from between her fingers, landing in the sink. It looks foreign there, out of place—like something dead. Her stomach turns, but she doesn’t stop.
Snip. Snip. Snip.
Each cut feels like a rebuke. A refusal. A deliberate severing of the past. She hacks away at the long, decadent curls Ambessa used to brush out with slow, methodical care—cuts away the softness, the beauty her mother admired. The beauty Ambessa had crafted.
She will not be her mother’s masterpiece.
By the time she finishes, her hands are shaking. Loose curls litter the counter, the floor, her skin. She grips the sink, breath heavy, and forces herself to look up.
The mirror is cruel.
She thought she would look different. Thought she would look free. But the woman staring back at her—sharp-jawed, dark-eyed, hair cropped close in layered waves—looks even more like Ambessa than before.
Mel staggers back, pressing a hand to her mouth.
No. No.
Her hands clench into fists. She refuses to cry. She refuses.
Her phone buzzes. A message. *Her*.
"I’m in town. I’ll be over in an hour."
Mel should say no. She should tell her to leave her the hell alone. But she doesn’t. She never does.
She simply stares at the screen, the weight of inevitability settling into her bones.
An hour later, Ambessa walks through her door like she owns the place. Because of course she does.
Mel doesn’t move from where she’s seated on the couch, back straight, fingers curled into the fabric of her pants.
Ambessa steps inside, pausing just long enough to look her over—before her expression darkens.
Silence.
Then, slowly, methodically, Ambessa shuts the door.
The sound is final.
Mel doesn’t breathe.
For the first time since childhood, Ambessa hesitats. Her gaze lingers on the uneven ends, the missing length, the loss. She exhales through her nose, jaw tight.
And then she’s in front of Mel, reaching out, large hands threading through the shortened curls. Mel fights the instinct to flinch.
“Why?” Ambessa murmurs. Not angry. Not yet. Just—disappointed.
Mel’s throat is dry.
“I wanted something new.”
Ambessa hums, running her fingers through the strands with the same slow reverence she used to have when braiding it as a child. Except now—now it’s different. Her touch is careful, deliberate, the scrape of her nails against Mel’s scalp making her skin prickle.
Mel clenches her jaw. Don't react.
Ambessa exhales sharply, shaking her head. “You always had such beautiful hair.”
The quiet grief in her voice makes something awful bloom in Mel’s chest.
But before she can dwell on it, Ambessa’s fingers flex. Her touch becomes thoughtful, curling into the strands, fluffing them at the roots—unknowingly giving them volume.
Mel stiffens.
Ambessa stills. Her grip tightens.
And then—her eyes lift to meet Mel’s.
Something shifts.
Ambessa’s gaze darkens, dragging over Mel’s face with something unsettling, something hungry.
And then—she smiles.
Slow. Knowing.
"Oh, baby," Ambessa breathes, tracing the edge of Mel’s jaw with a featherlight touch.
Mel is paralysed.
"You look even more like me now."
It’s a compliment.
It’s a curse.
Mel can’t breathe.
Ambessa’s fingers tilt her chin up, forcing her to hold her gaze.
“My pretty girl,” Ambessa murmurs, thumb dragging over Mel’s bottom lip like an artist appraising their finest work.
Mel’s stomach twists. Heat crawls up her spine, sick and dizzying.
She hates it.
She loves it.
And that’s the worst part.
Because this—this was supposed to be an act of freedom. A rebellion.
But instead—
Instead, it is an offering.
Ambessa cups the back of her neck, fingers threading through the cropped strands with something almost gentle. And Mel—Mel lets her..
Because no matter what she does—
She will never be free.
And Ambessa will never let her forget it.
She cut her hair to break free, to sever herself from her mother’s influence. But all she did was bring herself closer.
And Ambessa?
She knows.
♡♡♡
Ambessa isn’t angry. She’s correcting. Fixing the mess Mel made of herself.
And Mel—God, Mel—she hates this. She loves this.
The snip of the scissors is quiet.
Mel sits still. She doesn’t *want* to, doesn’t *mean* to—but when Ambessa gestures for her to come sit between her legs, she does. She *hates* how natural it is, how instinctual.
Ambessa doesn’t *say* anything. She simply takes the scissors from the bathroom counter, combing her fingers through the uneven strands. Mel sees the damage now—sees the long locks buried beneath the short ones, the *carelessness* of her own hands.
It was never *clean*. Never *orderly*. She hacked at it like something desperate, something *feral*.
Ambessa, though—*Ambessa* is precise.
The first cut is *deliberate*. The second, *calculated*.
She isn’t just fixing it. She’s *claiming* it.
Mel’s stomach twists.
She doesn’t speak. Neither does Ambessa. The only sound is the crisp, measured snipping, the *glide* of fingers through her curls, the occasional brush of nails against her scalp.
Mel’s skin *burns* beneath her mother’s touch.
Ambessa hums, low and approving, adjusting the angle of Mel’s head with a gentle yet *unyielding* grip. Mel swallows hard, throat dry.
She *hates* how careful she’s being. Hates that she’s *fixing* it.
Hates that she *wants her to.*
Minutes pass, slow and agonizing. And then, finally—Ambessa sets the scissors down.
Mel exhales.
It’s over.
Except—
Ambessa stands, extending a hand. “Come.”
Mel hesitates. But only for a second.
She takes her mother’s hand.
Ambessa leads her out of the bathroom, through the hall, into the master bath where the tub is already filling with warm water.
Mel *knows* what’s coming before it happens.
She should stop it.
But she doesn’t.
Ambessa sits at the edge of the tub, legs spread slightly, hands resting expectantly on her thighs. She looks at Mel—*waits* for her.
Mel stares back.
She *should* say no.
She should walk away.
But instead—*God help her*—she *bends*, lowering herself to sit between her mother’s legs, head tilted back over the tub.
The warmth of the water hits her scalp, and her breath *shudders* out.
Ambessa doesn’t speak. She simply *washes*.
Her hands are firm yet gentle, fingers massaging at the base of Mel’s skull, moving through her hair with a patience that makes Mel’s chest ache.
This is a *ritual*.
An act of *care*.
Mel *hates* it.
Mel *loves* it.
Her eyes burn.
She squeezes them shut.
Ambessa rinses her hair, strong fingers tilting her head as needed, ensuring every strand is clean. The lather, the methodical massaging, the *reverence*—it’s unbearable.
Mel wants to scream.
Wants to *sob*.
She grips the edge of the tub *too* hard.
Ambessa hums again, almost *pleased*. “There,” she murmurs, thumb brushing over Mel’s temple. “Much better.”
The words make Mel’s throat close up.
She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t *dare*.
Ambessa moves next, toweling her hair dry, fingers combing through the damp strands, twisting them in the way Mel *knows*.
*She knows exactly what she’s doing.*
It takes time. Time that stretches and suffocates. By the time Ambessa is done, Mel’s hair is styled into soft, full curls, identical to the ones her mother wears.
She doesn’t need to *see* it to *know*.
But Ambessa makes sure she does.
She leads Mel to the mirror, hands firm on her waist, pulling her flush against her front. Holding her *still*.
Mel *chokes* on air.
The resemblance is *uncanny*.
Her hair, her face, the sharp lines softened by her mother’s touch—she looks *just like her*.
Her stomach twists.
She *hates* it.
She *loves* it.
Ambessa’s breath is warm against her ear.
“Oh, baby,” she murmurs, voice thick with something Mel doesn’t want to name. “You look just like me now.”
Mel *shudders*.
Ambessa presses a kiss to her cheek.
“My beautiful baby girl.”
Mel’s vision blurs.
She *shouldn’t* feel warmth. She *shouldn’t* feel loved. She *shouldn’t*—
But the warmth spreads, deep and awful, curling in her chest, wrapping around her throat.
She grips the counter *too* tightly.
Ambessa’s arms tighten around her waist, holding her in place.
Mel doesn’t move.
She can’t.