Traumatic memories have dominated my thoughts recently as I have been more focussed on writing the book. It wears me down and burdens my soul. I grieve the loss of innocence. In order to take a fresh view of things, I’m choosing to focus on a funny memory to share with you all today.

I was just barely five years old when this happened. The older girls who lived next door were playing beauty shop, taking turns curling each other’s hair. My best friend and I wanted to play with them, but they weren’t about to let us join in their fun. We didn’t let them dampen our spirits, though. We got a chair from the kitchen, confiscated my mother’s good sewing scissors, and took them along with my 2 year-old sister outside on the lawn. My friend must have gotten her mother’s scissors as well, because I distinctly remember both of us clipping all of sister’s baby curls off her pretty little head. Baby sister sat patiently for the whole haircut, and we were so proud of our work that we had to go find Mother to show her our work. Mother was fit to be tied! Instead of ohhhs and ahhs, we heard groans and something that closely resembled a growl. My friend was sent home and I was sent to my room to wonder what we had done wrong. Mother took Sister to a real live beautician to attempt to transform what was left of my sister’s hair into something my mother could live with, but it was an impossible task. That night my mother was emphatic as she informed me that the only reason I was not getting a spanking for what I had done was because my best friend’s mother had refused to spank her for our joint endeavor; but if I ever again took it in my head to cut someone’s hair it would not matter what the consequences were for any cohorts, I would be getting a spanking for my part in it.

To make matters worse, the following day was Sabbath and the day the church took pictures of all the families for an album. Many of the people in the church service that morning commented to my mother how much they liked Sister’s haircut. My friend and I beamed our approval despite my mother’s frowns directed towards us. Our family portrait was an ongoing reminder of my mother’s dire warning; and I never did cut hair again until I was married and cutting my husband’s hair. Even then I felt like I was doing something wrong for which I would surely be punished, even though it was a ridiculous thought.