On my first day of kindergarten, there was only one person I knew, and her name was Olivia. We’d been in the same gymnastics class, which seems to have made a more lasting impression on her, being a dancer now and all. So when I stepped into the room with hundreds of toys lined up on the rows of desks, I noticed her and didn’t leave her side the entire day. I was terrified, so a familiar face was reassuring.
Olivia had the most magnificent hair I’d ever seen. It was long, brown, and most of the time she kept it back in one long braid. This fascinated me, and the reason I wanted to grow my hair long was partly because of her, so I could make a braid just as long and beautiful as hers. Unfortunately, my hair is much too thick for this style, so my hair would have to be twice as long as hers was in order to cooperate, but by then I would be tripping over it and it wouldn’t be worth the trouble.
In fifth grade, my assigned seat was directly behind Olivia, so I got to stare at that braid for hours on end. And the strangest thought started crossing my mind as time went on. All I could think about whilst staring at this girl’s braid was how much I wanted to pull it.
But I didn’t just want to pull it, I wanted to pull it. I wanted to be able to grab ahold of that braid with both of my hands and pull it as if I was ringing one of those giant church bells. And for the life of me, I still can’t figure out why.
Nowadays, when I see her in the hallways, I mourn the loss of that braid, as she now sports a short emo cut. It was probably a good choice in the long run, though. My self control isn’t what it once was.
