I once had a ponytail cut off.
Yup, my entire left ponytail was hacked by a second grader named, Shamia Stephens. It was so unexpected because Shamia was a friendly classmate of mine. We got along very well and even played together during recess. We also both loved to draw.
Shamia and I shared a social studies class together where we would always play and interact with one another during the cool-down portion of class. She seemed a bit clingy. She would purposely sit very close to me during class reading-time, always choosing to be in my group whenever we had shared assignments, and she loved to play in my hair. Oh my goodness, she would just play in my hair all the time. My teacher would have to tell her: Shamia Stephens! Get your hands out of her hair and sit at your own desk! At the time, I didn't judge. I myself clung onto Charda; someone who I was so proud to be able to call a friend. And honestly, it felt good to have her play in my hair.
On this occasion, our teacher Mr. Willard, was not there to educate us. This did not bother us as we all knew our favorite substitute teacher would be rolled in at any second. (The substitute teacher was a large square television that sat high on a black stand with four wheels.) During the class, we had the options of either watching the television which played Rolie Polie Olie or drawing, coloring, or reading. I choose to draw, so did Shamia.
Some of the other kids decided to make up their own options and play with the educational toys in the back of the class. Shamia stopped drawing early on and went along with them to play. After maybe five or ten minutes of playing, she came over to me and asked me to join. I told her no. She became frustrated and told me that she could not properly play a game of House if I was not her daughter. I repeated my refusal and told her I would rather draw.
Moments later, I watched as strands of my sandy brown hair fell onto my artwork. My head jolted backward and my neck became tight. Kids around me gasped. I put both my hands, palm down onto my head, feeling my forehead, and trailing my fingers to my hair which was in two high ponytails. The first thing I felt was the scissors. They were apple-red child-safe scissors STUCK in my hair. I opened the scissors and my left ponytail was dangling along the side of my face; the circle barrette on the end smacking me in the chin. I wailed.
The neighboring class teacher came inside and saw me sitting in my chair crying with half of my ponytail cut off. Shamia was next to me, crying too. The class erupt in screams, every child telling the teacher that Shamia had cut my hair off.
Shamia and I were rushed to the principles office by the teacher; each of our arms being held by her strong grip. We both sat in wooden chairs next to one another, waiting for the secretary to call us up individually for our names so they could locate our files. Her mother arrived first. She came in stomping and yelling at Shamia. Asking her repeatedly: "WHY DID YOU CUT THAT LITTLE GIRLS HAIR OFF!?" I started crying, touching my barely there ponytail, remembering all over again that my hair was gone. I noticed that her mother was significantly older than my mom at the time - at least by a decade.
When my mother arrived, she was like a tornado. She was on a thousand! (Basically, she was pissed!) There was no calming my mother and I sat in the office frightened as the school enlisted the gym teacher to try and compose her. I could hear my mother's screams through the glass doors behind me, infuriated, cursing repeatedly for the teacher to let her the fuck go. The teacher was no match for my mother and did as he was told. When my mother came into the office, I observed as she started to breathe heavily through her nose, fan herself with both hands, and motion those same hands down towards the grounds. (Something I later found out was a way she calmed herself.) We all were escorted into the principles office; Shamia and her mom, me and my mom. Oddly enough, both our parents took the available seats and Shamia and I stood on either side of them, overwhelmed from crying. When my principle sat down, Shamia's mother was the first to speak. She apologized profusely to my mom who I could tell, would have preferred if Shamia's mother had reacted differently. My mom was furious. She wanted someone to let the rage out on, the gym teacher wasn't enough.
YOU ARE READING
Three Miles in Baltimore
Non-FictionI was born in Baltimore, Maryland to a single struggling mother of four. Last year, in the midst of a mental breakdown, I began writing. I wrote in hopes of understanding my depression. I wrote to calm my ever present anxiety. I wrote to acknowledge...
