4
in my bed night after night, dreading the approaching school
picture day. A painful knot grew in my stomach that hurt me
when the thought of the day arose. I tried to comb my hair
myself and copy the elegant style my grandmother had made,
but all my attempts fell flat. I begged my father to take me to
grandmother’s again but he exclaimed “your hair is fine, quit
being so vain!” Finally the day had come; it had caught up to
me. I would now be immortalized in a class picture as the girl
with the horrible hair. I wept at the sheer thought of standing
before the photographer with everyone’s eyes watching.
Later that afternoon my teacher, Mrs. Rogers, beckoned
to the class to line up to head over to the auditorium for our
pictures. I felt an upsurge of fright take over me. I felt frozen
in my seat. I looked down at my desk and noticed a pair of
scissors we had been using for an assignment. I quickly ran to
the bathroom with the scissors in hand. I didn’t know why I
had taken them in with me or why I was standing there in the
bathroom at all. “What now?” I told myself, and almost
immediately a voice answered back “cut it off, just cut the dang
hair and end your problems!” I shook my head
instantaneously as to get it out of my thoughts, but somehow it
overpowered me.