When I was a kid I was Catholic. When I was a kid I was straight. When I was a kid I loved my parents without question. When I was a kid I stayed away from anything my dad didn’t like or anything my mother didn’t approve. My music taste belonged to my parents. My look belonged to my parents. I belonged to my parents. When I was a kid I didn’t know who I was, but only who my parents were. With parents like mine, it took a few tries for me to finally become my own person, with one moment in particular shining above the rest of my self-realizations.
I sit in the black cushy chair, my eyes closed. My dad had already said something along the lines of “hell no” and my mom had disapproved of the idea entirely. But here I was. The fear of my parents was only slightly over come by the desire to do something for myself, two feelings that would grow side by side for several more years of my life. The stylist ran her hand through all fourteen inches of my hair. “How short?” she asked me, her eyes meeting mine in …show more content…
Maybe I really could be an artist. Maybe I could write things that matter to me and not to other people. Perhaps I didn’t share my parents’ beliefs. Perhaps I was one of the queers my parents seemed to detest. Perhaps I didn’t believe in my parents’ God. Perhaps I didn’t believe in my parents.
As the hairdresser made the last few snips I felt the ole “me” fall away. I felt the girl who had cried because her seventh grade English teacher expressed that he didn’t see the importance behind her personal narrative essay in front of the rest of the class fall away. I felt the kid who accepted a faith because it belonged to her family fall away. I felt a teenager who pushed away art in favor of academics to meet unprecedented standards put in place by those who “only want the best” for her fall away. I felt my parents’ daughter fall far, far
I sit in the black cushy chair, my eyes closed. My dad had already said something along the lines of “hell no” and my mom had disapproved of the idea entirely. But here I was. The fear of my parents was only slightly over come by the desire to do something for myself, two feelings that would grow side by side for several more years of my life. The stylist ran her hand through all fourteen inches of my hair. “How short?” she asked me, her eyes meeting mine in …show more content…
Maybe I really could be an artist. Maybe I could write things that matter to me and not to other people. Perhaps I didn’t share my parents’ beliefs. Perhaps I was one of the queers my parents seemed to detest. Perhaps I didn’t believe in my parents’ God. Perhaps I didn’t believe in my parents.
As the hairdresser made the last few snips I felt the ole “me” fall away. I felt the girl who had cried because her seventh grade English teacher expressed that he didn’t see the importance behind her personal narrative essay in front of the rest of the class fall away. I felt the kid who accepted a faith because it belonged to her family fall away. I felt a teenager who pushed away art in favor of academics to meet unprecedented standards put in place by those who “only want the best” for her fall away. I felt my parents’ daughter fall far, far