Coupled with bright blue eyes and a permanent blush on my otherwise pale face, I made quite the impression. Of course that soon got very tiresome, constantly being told how sweet and angelic you look isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. When I was fourteen, I took my mother’s sewing scissors and chopped it all off. I ended up with uneven lengths and ratted ends. But as I looked at myself in the mirror, I couldn’t help the smile that spread across my face. I looked a mess, but I couldn’t give a shit. Of course, when my mother found me still sat in front of the mirror, the fallen strands of my hair surrounding me, she went ballistic. I was marched to the hairdresser, who struggled to right my hair while keeping it as long as possible – as per my mother’s request. What was considered my best feature was gone and man was she pissed, but I was only getting started. About a year later, my hair hadn’t gained much length. I would never admit I was secretly trimming it - that would just cause more trouble than it was worth.
