I Can Do This

I know it doesn’t really seem like I can, considering that this is the second time I’ve missed my Story A Day, but I swear, I can do it.

It isn’t as though I didn’t write at all yesterday… I’m just really uncomfortable writing stories by hand, and all I had with me were my diary and pencil box. I mean, I suppose I had access to my mom’s iPad (she’s so tech-savvy), but I didn’t want to use it because then she might have asked why I needed it, and then I might have told her that I have this blog, and I don’t want her to know that, because I don’t want anybody I know (except for you, and you know who you are) to know I have this blog. If people I knew could potentially read this blog–and trust me when I say that I’ve been there, done that, and really don’t want to go back–I would be very self-conscious, because then people might bring it up to me, and gosh, wouldn’t that just be embarrassing as all hell?

So, you understand my situation.

Wait, I just reread that paragraph, and that actually has nothing to do with my situation. Wow. Way to go, brah. God, I’m just brilliant…

Anyways, so the point I was trying to make was that, although I haven’t technically been keeping up with “story a day”, I’ve at least been writing every day. However, since I pretty much do that anyways, it’s hardly an accomplishment to say that. But you know… little victories and all that.

Okay, so I’m tired right now, and I sort of feel like going to bed as soon as I can. That might not be easy, since my sister is playing World of Warcraft in our room right now, and she’s not very good about giving that up for the sake of my comfort.

Even if I don’t get much sleep, I’m sure I’ll be fine, since I don’t think I’m doing much tomorrow, so I can probably sleep during the day… I’m going to a party tomorrow night, and–judging by the Facebook event page for it–I think it’s going to be pretty cool, so I don’t really want to be tired for it. Some of my friends’ bands are going to be playing, which is probably going to be fun. One of my friends says that his band is going to play the song he wrote about the Greek philosopher, Socrates. Something about how Socrates is a “sexy beast”? Anyway, it’s a party worth looking forward to.

I closed my eyes and braced myself for the worst. “The worst”, I knew, wasn’t actually coming. The only thing that was actually coming was the damp, slow, shniiiiip of the serrated metal scissors, too close to my head for comfort.

I don’t like getting haircuts. I never have. I mean, I enjoy getting my hair washed by some stranger with fancy rubber gloves, but the razor-sharp scissors right next to my head always sort of got to me.

This was the first time I allowed my hair to be cut in years; it had gotten pretty long, too–it was a few inches past my shoulder blades now.

And it was all going to go.

I needed to change. I winced with every cut and pull, but I didn’t care. I wanted new hair, to match my new Everything Else. I had a new driver’s license to go with my new car, and a new wardrobe full of new shoes, and a brand spankin’ new waist, with at least a few inches off it than a few months ago.

Now, all that was left was to change my hair.

“So, how short do you want it?”

I thought. “Well,” I said, “I was thinking maybe… earlobe-length?”

She spun the chair around. “That’s a lot of hair,” she warned me.

I nodded. “I know.”

She looked at me skeptically. “Are you sure?”

Again, I nodded. “I’m looking for a change.”

She smiled knowingly now. “Ohhhh. Well, a change, I can do.”

She spun me around again and got back to her rapid clipping. “And would you like to donate your hair to make wigs for children undergoing chemotherapy for various cancers?”

“Yes, of course,” I said.

“Oh, your hair is going to be wonderful…” she mumbled. “And you said something about dyeing…?”

Dying? Oh, dyeing. “Yeah, I was thinking black?” I suggested.

“Does ‘Midnight Ebony’ sound good?”


It was a while before I felt the blow drier hit my neck–my suddenly very bare neck–and I realized that we were almost done. The lingering chemical smell of Midnight Ebony assailed my senses, but I embraced it, because I knew that I was going to be a whole new person because of it. A skinny person, who has a car, and pretty black hair. That’s who I was going to be.

I glanced at the floor and saw the long blond locks that were strewn around the base of my chair. I almost gasped in shock and fear. What if it didn’t look as good as I thought it was going to? What if looked stupid, and people thought I was a wannabe? That wouldn’t be fun.

A few strands of inky black hair were blown into my eyes, which closed reflexively, and I realized that, yeah, this was a good choice. I was going to look good. This hair would work.

After all the pep-talking it took for me to convince myself to go though with this change, you can see why I might have burst into tears when I was turned around and saw the horror that was my reflexion.


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