thinking about how nancy's hair is so much shorter in '83 compared to '84... thinking about nancy standing in front of the mirror with a pair of scissors, tears streaming down her face as she cuts off her brown locks in chunks because she can't stand it anymore, because it reminds her too much of the nights where barb would braid her hair or idly play with it, because it stands for everything she no longer is - a straight a student, a girlfriend, a daughter, someone normal, someone who doesn't know that monster are real and hide in the woods - and doesn't know if she'll ever be that again...her mom finds her sobbing on the bathroom floor, half of her hair cut off, the scissors discarded in the sink. she wants to understand her, but she can't. how could she? nancy never told her what she did, what she killed, why she killed it. she doesn't know and she never will. but she does take her to the hairdresser the next day to try and save her hair, to make it look normal. acceptable. nancy grits her teeth and bites her tongue and doesn't say a word the entire time. she knows that whatever's wrong with her can't be fixed. and maybe, that's a good thing.