Pink Infamy

May 27, 2011
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Have you ever made a mistake that was semi-permanent, something that haunts you when you see anything that reminds you of it? At some point in everyone’s life, this type of mistake is made, and hopefully one will look back and be able to laugh about it.

My mistake was cutting my own hair. The decision to cut my hair only took about ten seconds, but the after math lasted much longer. I was in the seventh grade and sick of the long, heavy mane growing off of my head. I would ask my mom about getting it cut, and she would never give me a definite answer. After a few days of asking, I decided to take matters, and my hair, into my own hands.

Late at night, after we all were supposed to be in bed, I stood in front of my bathroom mirror looking at myself. On the counter lay a pink pair of dull scissors with my name in sharpie marker scribbled on it. These were my trusty scissors from the fifth grade. I completed many art projects with them, and even won first place in a science fair thanks to the amazing cutting they did. I knew they would not let me down. I picked up my hair, picked up my scissors, and took a deep breath. SNIP.

In my defense, it was ten o’clock at night, and I was only in middle school. My hair looked horrible. In my hastiness to cut, I did not think clearly. I had pulled it all over to one side and cut straight across. My new “do” was diagonal. Luckily, I was not brave enough to try and fix it, or who knows how my yearbook picture would have looked. I immediately twisted my hair in a bun and ran downstairs to see my mom.

As stated before, it was late at night and everyone was asleep. My mom does not like to be bothered when she is sleeping, whether it is a catnap or bedtime. I nervously stood over her bed trying to muster up the courage to call her name. It came out as a whisper, which didn’t wake her. I tried again. This time it came out too loud, and she woke up with a start. She grumpily mumbled, “What is it?” to which I responded by walking into the bathroom. I flipped on the lights and she groaned. I pulled my hair out of the bun and she screamed.

“Jasmin! What did you do?” she yelled.

“I wanted to get a hair cut.”

“Your hair is uneven!” she gasped.

“I know, I’m sorry.”

“Give me your scissors right now!” she demanded.

I quickly ran upstairs and grabbed my scissors. I looked at them, upset with myself. I glanced in the mirror again. One side of my hair barely rested on my shoulder, the other side fell a little below my shoulder, and the back ranged somewhere in between. Because my hair is extremely curly, I looked like a lopsided poodle. I scowled at the pink Benedict Arnold in my hands that mocked me with my own name. Shocked as I trudged down the stairs, I could not even cry. I gave my mom my scissors and escaped to my room to sulk in the dark.
My mom made sure I learned my lesson about being too hasty. She forbid me to get my hair evened out for two long weeks. Those weeks were torture. I kept a calendar from that year with diary like entries written on each of the fourteen days of embarrassment along with a drawing of me from behind with slanted hair.
Looking back, I can laugh about how silly I was to think I could do something of great importance in front of a dimly lit bathroom mirror. I enjoy telling people this story because it usually makes them laugh and reminds them of crazy things they did when they were younger. Sadly, I did not fully learn from my mistake because freshman year, my pink scissors aided me in chopping off the left half of my bangs—but that’s a different story.





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Mrs. P said...
Jun. 19, 2011 at 6:51 pm
Your hair story is a classic.
 
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