A bit long, but very entertaining.
It was a sunny Sunday morning and the birds were sweetly chirping. My brothers sloppy mop head and the new Madonna video would soon lead to one of the most traumatic experiences of my short life. Taking one look at my older brothers cowlicks, my mothers scooped us up and deposited my brother and I at Supercuts, taking my Rapunzel Barbie sister with her to the grocery store. I, being an 11-year-old undeveloped tomboy, had no need to further masculinize myself. Yet the powers that be felt differently.
Madonna had just come out with a new video showing her rolling on the floor in a corset and drinking milk out of a bowl like a cat. She was also sporting a blonde bobbed hairdo (Bobbed: chin length in the front, shorter in the back. For those of you not up on the hairdo lingo) I knew this look was for me. Every 11-year tomboy wants to look sexy, they just dont tell anyone.
I sit in the chair of a young bouncy stylist (a beauty school dropout who experiments in psychology). I describe the 'do I'm looking for and she tells me she has seen said Madonna video. She then asks if I want it layered. I had no idea what this meant, but not wanting to look uneducated (remember I was 11) I gave a resounding Yes! To my downfall. Snip, snip, snip. Her scissors begin to cut my shoulder length hair down, or is it up? She keeps cutting. And cutting. And cutting. And cutting. Do you see a pattern here? With every snip of her mutilating scissors, I sunk deeper and deeper into the chair, in a vain attempt to end the massacre. With one final snip the death toll rang.
I LOOKED LIKE A BOY!!! NOOOO!!! OH THE HUMANITY!!!
I mustered up the last of my fragile courage, and with shorn head hanging down, went to my brother to get money to pay the shearing wench. I was on the verge of tears. My brother did not see me (in retrospect, perhaps he simply did not recognize me as his sister. I certainly didnt look it.) The final straw was placed on my camels back. My brothers haircutter said to him, "Oh look, theres your little brother". Im a girl you fat whore!! The tears that had been sitting on the verge broke through the floodgates and streamed down my reddening cheeks. I ran out the door, full force into my mother. She was in shock seeing her daughter crying, screaming, running out the door looking like her son.
Monday morning came much too soon. My mom was sympathetic, though not to the point of allowing me to be home-schooled until my hair grew back. She put me in a dress, curled what little bits of hair she could, let me put on blush and shiny lip-gloss. As feminine as I had been in a very long time. I felt a tiny bit better. They made fun of me on the bus. Children can be painfully cruel. I dove directly from the bus to the girls bathroom at school, locked myself in the farthest stall and refused to come out until my hair was knee length.
The bell rang. Everyone went to class and sat in their little desks. My desk was empty as I was locked in the bathroom crying my eyes out, cursing the beauty school gods. One of my well-meaning friends informed my teacher that I was crying in the bathroom and would not come out. She ran to my rescue. After many promises of protection and much cajoling later, I finally allowed her to escort me into my classroom. Every head turned to stare at me in my pain. The sniggers and pointing started immediately. Pour more salt in my gaping open wounds please. That'd be great. Thanks. Looking back, they were probably laughing at me because they had never seen me in a dress before, but in my mind I only saw boy hair! I have never again cut my hair that short, and never will. Even when I am an old member of the silver fox club, I will have long silver fox hair and will put it up in a bun.
Moral of the story: It takes a lifetime to get over the scars of our youth. Don't torture kids. They'll blog about you later.
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