It was fall of 2004, and I was bored to an extent that it was unhealthy. My brothers were obessed with the weird talking animals on the telivision, also known as Pokemon. Though I was about to expire from the pure frustration of my boredom, I wasn't desperate enough to watch the before mentioned talking animals.
I went outside to annoy my cay. Unfortunately, my cat had the patience of a temple-dwelling monk and gazed at me unfalteringly as I poked and prodded at his fluffy sides. Then, a terribly smug voice made us both look up. My delight that I had someone to talk to other than my cat quickly depleted when I saw who it was. Mishan, the only other girl on the block who was my age.
We'd been friends until she'd talked my brother into crosssing the street while I was not looking. She knew we were forbidden to cross the street and only asked my brother to commit the act out of a sly curiosity to see if he would actually do it with enough goading. Our street wasn't a busy one, but my brother was four at the time and all the neighbors were coming home from work. I didn't ask her why she had tried to get my brother killed, but I did ban her from my yard.
Now, many years later, she asked me, "What do you think of my new haircut?" while eyeing my drab locks. Besides her new haircut, she also had a new puppy. Ignoring the happy wag of the puppy's tail, and eyes that pleaded for me to steal him away from his evil owner, I studied Mishan's hair instead. I thought it was an ugly haircut, but then again, I was biased. Fluffy (we weren't, and still aren't, known for having imaginative names for our pets) hissed before abandoning me.
"It looks nice, Mishan," I said stiffly.
She nodded in agreement, before casting a disdainful glance at my hair and clothes and walking back to her house. Fifteen minutes later, I was armed with a pair of scissors.
Under the impression that it could not be too hard to cut hair, I went to work, not thinking of the consequences. I was tired of being the last person to change. I didn't intend to cut off too much, just the hair at the top. Maybe I could have some nice bangs. There was no certain style in mind, I just wanted a change. However, the scissors had a mind of their own, and upon getting frusterated at my own sloppy attempts, I cut my 'bangs' all the way off.
There was nothing left to see. I sighed with a mixture of happiness that this disaster was over, and regret that it did not turn out right. Maybe the hair will grow back as bangs I thought, staring in dismay at the only slightly noticeable patch of hair missing atop my forehead.
I covered the disaster up with a large hairband. It looked funny pulled down so low, but no one said anything even as I waited for days expecting a curious question or at least an odd glance. Encouraged by their lack of interest in my current style, I continued to wear my hair that way. Two weeks went by and we went to Tennessee for the fall festivals and scenery. There was an art show taking place in a large factory. There were paintings, carvings, quilts, embroidery and almost anything else you could imagine in the department of arts and humanities.
I and my family watched as a lady worked on a pastel picture of a little girl, I was surprised at how life-like it seemed. The artist had caught everything a photograph could, but with pastels, and she'd done it in a short amount of time.
"We should get her to paint the kids," my dad proposed to my mom.
"If you want to, just let me do something with Zak's hair first," she said and went after my brother, comb already in hand.
Before I'd realized what was happening, I was told to sit on a weird stool and my brother's were posed beside me. The stool was uncomfortable, and I tried not to laugh as my brother's made faces when the artist wasn't looking.
It wasn't until later that I thought about the dark blue hair band which I'd worn for weeks.
Before, my mom had been planning a trip, and therefore didn't think much about the things that would usually have appeared very odd...like my sudden inclination for thick hairbands. Now though, she took notice. A couple days after we had been back, she hugged me, and when she pulled away, the hairband came with her.
Too surprised to do anything other than stare, I watched as my mom's eyes grew wide--and she promptly burst into laughter. It was bad; my hair, hidden beneath the dark material had somehow grown back so light, it looked white against the rest rest of my hair.
As an added bonus to my personal misery, it had grown back straight up. I knew what I looked like, but my mom's laughter was contagious. Soon we were both laughing so hard, tears ran down our faces. The painting, which would forever stand as a reminder of the consequences of hurried descisions, hung from the kitchen wall a mere few feet away.
Laughing at yourself isn't easy. Even after many life lessons like this, I'd still rather punch something than laugh at the mistakes I've made, but every time I see that picture, I have to grin.