When I was a senior I high school, I was in a car accident. (The song playing on the radio as I crashed: “We Are the Champions.” I couldn’t make this up.) I managed to escape the fray unscathed, but my car wasn’t so lucky; it was totaled. I remember being wracked with unthinkable guilt, guilt on top of my usual dosage of guilt. (I could have used Maggie’s prescription for Paxil.) I was ashamed of everything about myself. I wanted to efface my very existence. And so I flippantly decided to obliterate my definable physical characteristic.
I cut my Geddy Lee esque hair.
So when I watch Maggie clinically cut her hair in front of the mirror, it makes total sense to me. I get it: Part of her blames herself for the death of Daniel—the boy who gawked admiringly at her blond locks—and she needed to disassociate. It was a poignant scene, marred only by the gratuitous flashback to her reading to the boy at school. (I really didn’t need to be reminded of this. I actually found it somewhat insulting.)