Essay about Personal Narrative- Bad Haircut and a Mother’s Lesson

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Personal Narrative- Bad Haircut and a Mother’s Lesson

“Listen as your day unfolds. Challenge what the future holds. Try and keep your head up to the sky. Lovers may cause you tears. Go ahead, release your fears. Stand up and be counted. Don't be ashamed to try.”

I’m sitting with my knees tucked under my chin, waiting for my mom’s turn to be finished, so I can climb up in the hairdresser’s swiveling chair and have the big apron tied around my neck to get my hair cut. I’m singing the lyrics to my favorite song by Deseree (softly so mom doesn’t yell at me) while looking through the books of hair designs on the chair next to me. I really like the skinny models with their choppy, short-like-a-boy’s haircuts, and the more pictures I see
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etc. But nothing can stop me. The hairdresser starts to snip away at pieces of my hair; I watch them turn into little crescent moons on the plastic-covered floor. I cover my eyes, wanting to be surprised, wanting to save the best for last.

“Okey-dokey, you’re done.”

I open my eyes at the hairdresser’s words, only to squeeze them shut again. That is not me in the mirror. Where’s Sarah? Where’s the beautiful model with choppy, short-like-a-boy’s hair? All I see in the mirror is a seven year-old IT. I know I’m supposed to be a girl, but there is not a girl looking back at me in the mirror. Only an IT. I start to cry. Instead of looking like those beautiful models, I look like nothing I’ve ever seen. My mom, a second-grade teacher, tries to build up my confidence. Like Amy Tan’s mother in “Fish Cheeks,” my mom tells me “You must be proud you are different. Your only shame is to have shame.” And like Tan, it will take me many years before I know just how right she is. In those few tear-sodden minutes of my seven year life, my mom, in the words of John Hope Franklin’s “A Train from Hate,” “…provided me a sound basis for my attitudes from that day to this.”

So I wipe away my tears, and I slide out of the hairdresser’s swiveling chair, trying hard to be proud of how I look. And whenever someone at school makes fun of me, or a waiter at a restaurant unknowingly asks, “And what can I get for you to drink, sir?” I sigh, and then I start to

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