Home > Anxiety, Disgusting, Fun Childhood, Ohio, School, Silliness, Strange, Traumatic Childhood, Worry > The Time My Hair Was Confiscated

The Time My Hair Was Confiscated

January 23, 2012 Leave a comment Go to comments

The time? 5th grade, 1994.

The place? Mrs. Honesty’s history class, Cincinnati, OH. And yes, that was her real name.

I had a habit back then of playing with things in class that were, apparently, inappropriate. Only earlier that same year, I had had my shoelaces taken by Mr. Hilliker, my science teacher. I was attempting to play Cat’s Cradle with a friend, using my bright pink shoelaces, when the ominous shadow of my teacher loomed over us. In a flash, my shoelaces were gone, and placed into a large filing cabinet with a rather ostentatious lock. In here were the other items stolen from unruly students, including innumerable paper airplanes and wind-up toys. I ended up concocting a crazy story once I arrived home, claiming that I had simply managed to “lose” my shoelaces during the course of the day. Luckily we had a spare pair, but I never saw the pink ones again.

During this particular history lesson, Mrs. Honesty had decided to take a much needed break from the children and show us a video instead. I can’t remember what the video was about, but the room was dark, and in such an environment I felt free to act with reckless abandon.

An acquaitance of mine asked if she could make a tiny braid in my hair, and I agreed. She set to work with impressive focus, managing to braid several feet of hair in what seemed like moments. The braid itself was extremely narrow, and no wider than a pencil. I kept it in for a while, then decided I should unravel it before my next class.

But my efforts were in vain. The braid was so small and intricate that any attempt to undo it resulted in a massive knot. I asked the girl to unbraid it herself, which only made the knot larger. I now had something resembling a tumbleweed hanging off my head, and I figured the best course of action was to simply cut it off. Someone grabbed their colorful elementary school scissors, and made the chop. The ball of hair was handed to me with an air of apology and awe, since not many girls at that age would submit to a fair chunk of hair being lost to the cosmos.

I palmed the hair, enjoying its springy texture, and began to toss it from hand to hand. As the dull video lumbered on, I continued to manipulate the hairball, seeing if I could maybe shape it into an animal or something. Perhaps a hedgehog?

I was so engrossed in this activity that I failed to realized that Mrs. Honesty had in fact STOPPED the video, and was approaching my desk. Too late, I saw her formidable figure, dressed in a muumuu, stop before me.

“Give it here,” she said, her hand outstretched. I was helpless with fear, and obeyed automatically. I played the wad of hair in her hand, cringing as the fibers left my fingertips.

Apparently, Mrs. Honesty had thought my bundle was just a ball of yarn, or something equally innocuous. When she discovered that the culprit was a surprisingly large hairball, she began to scream.

And scream.

The day lived in infamy for a few weeks among our 5th grade class. Comics were drawn about the incident, and distributed amongst the student body. But I still mourned the loss of my hair. Mrs. Honesty had prompty thrown the ball into the garbage can, and forbid any of us from retrieving it.

A sad day for my hair. A worse day for Mrs. Honesty.

  1. calger459
    February 8, 2012 at 2:46 pm

    Heh, that woman deserved it. I couldn’t stand her, and I remember you telling mom and dad that she started treating you differently (in a bad way) the minute she realize you were my sister 😛 Sh really didn’t like me, though perhaps it was because I also always played with inappropriate things in class…oh well.

  1. March 7, 2012 at 10:49 am

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