Before I begin I just want to #1 thank you for inviting me to your blog so thank you - #2 as I have read some of your stories I realize that I am very much an amateur and if I knew a word that meant less that amateur I would surely use it. So in all fairness I should warn you that I am absolutely atrocious in grammar, spelling, and especially punctuation. You see in school I didn't listen to the teacher when it came to English I would be too busy writing my grammarless, misspelled, run-on sentence stories. So you have been forewarned but I do promise to take advice and work on my shortcomings so that you won't have to bare it for too long.
It has been at least 20 years since that haircut but I will never ever forget it. It was school picture day and I was so excited (being only 8 I didn't know yet that you should despise getting your picture taken and shun anyone with a camera.) I woke up bright and early though at 4:30 nothing is bright. It being school picture day the early hour seemed needed to get myself sufficiently ready for my 9:30 class. After all picture day was only the best day of the year (well, besides the day before all holiday breaks when all the teachers were too tired to teach.) The first thing I did as most normal people do is I headed for the bathroom. While sitting on the "throne" I saw a pair of shiny silver scissors. They weren't just any scissors though they were my mom's special top of the line Fiskars that usually were kept in a blue box hidden very carefully. "Why are they here?" I wondered. It was probably the usual suspect - my father. I don't know why my dad always took things from my mom especially her most prized possessions. I remember many a time when mom would be looking for a knife, or pan, or a certain towel only to find it bent, broken, or covered in paint. I don't know why a man who would tell us kids anytime we broke something "that's why we can't have nice things" would do this. But anyway back to the forbidden scissors. They begged to be touched, held, and caressed. I picked them up, they were nice and heavy just perfect for cutting but now what to cut? I looked around that bathroom daring anything to catch my eye: the towel - no I'd surely get spanked for that, the toilet paper - not enough fun. Then I caught my own reflection in the mirror. I looked at my frizzy wild bed head. 'Hmmm' I thought, 'my bangs are much too long especially for picture day.' I gathered all my bangs into one hand, grabbed the scissors, and "snip." I put my hands down to look at my work and noticed that my bangs were crooked. So once again I gathered, grabbed, then snipped. But they still were crooked. I was beginning to doubt my hair styling abilities when finally I had gotten them straight. I had also cut them right against my forehead. Suddenly I felt sick. I kept pulling at the little bristles jutting out of my head willing them to grow. Delirium was setting in. I was dead. Dead! My face drained of all color as I hid the evidence. I stumbled to my bedroom eyes wide with dread for what was to come. Then it came to me, at church I heard the bishop say that with faith anything is possible and that God can do anything. So I got down on my knees and crumbled into my pillow. "Heavenly Father I know I shouldn't have" I began (and strangly enough that is how many of my prayers begin now) "cut my bangs and I'm very, very sorry but please let my bangs grow back by the time my mom gets up." I said this over and over and over again until I thought He really felt how important this matter was. I climbed back into bed with my floral "picture day" dress on and waited for my miracle. Then the dreaded hour came when mom started waking up all us kids one by one. When she got to me all I heard was a gasp of horror and a four letter word. I sighed. 'I hate picture day.'
3 comments:
Jana, welcome! Glad you could post. I hope that you'll have fun coming up with stories and ideas to post, and that I won't offend if I give constructive criticism or make comments that I hope will be useful. I sometimes take the writing process too seriously, so hope you'll forgive me if I go on about it.
On that note, I actually had a lot of fun reading your story. I suppose it's based on an actual experience of yours. Either way, it's very funny-- and I can relate.
I especially liked the end where I could feel your anxiety building until the moment when your mother gasps and curses.
I liked too how you introduced the story with thoughts of how excited you were about picture day, contrasted at the end where you punctuate how much you loathe it.
Watch the overuse of brackets (). We tend to use them for flashbacks or as divergent thoughts. They can take the reader out of the flow of your story. This can create proverbial bumps in the road, make the reader veer off course. Try to find ways to incorporate these ideas into the story, rather than using a bracket. One of my professors taught me that. I used to abuse brackets badly.
It was good fun reading your story. It's written as if you had fun writing it, and that's always good.
glad to have you! this is a funny piece and your descriptions of the emotional flow are great.
i suggest paragraphs. break it up as topics change.
picture day.
finding scissors.
cutting hair.
panic prayer.
waiting and mom.
I saw something coming, but not quite that! Your story held my attention, fun to read.
M
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