New year, Nair me

Havana Garrett, reporter

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It was October of 8th grade. I had grown tired of my thick and unruly hair and how difficult it was to comb through it every morning. I craved a chemical solution to this problem. One that would fix my hectic mornings, and difficult routine. I scanned my bathroom and spotted it, Nair™. 

This was not my first adventure with Nair™, I had used it before but always found it resulted in more of a thinning effect than actual removal, which would make it perfect for my hair. 

 I smeared the Nair™ on the top of my head and waited, and waited, and I eventually fell asleep. Upon waking, I experienced the greatest sense of panic, fear spread through me quickly as I reached for the top of my head and ran my fingers through my hair. I was relieved as I realized my hair was still there. But then I removed my hand; and my hair came with it. 

Full Panic Mode™. Nothing in my life had been scarier than this moment. I rushed to the mirror, only to see a poorly executed Ben Franklin haircut. The top was completely bald except for about 2 inches at the front of the hairline. Luckily, the sides and the back looked okay, but it didn’t exactly matter because nobody would care about the back of my head once they saw the top. With hair that fell just below my chin I looked a little bit like a middle aged man who was trying so hard to hold onto his hair that he continued to grow it out, thus leading to the fiasco that rested on my scalp. 

I was terrified to tell my mom, I knew I couldn’t hide it from her, because it didn’t look like I was going to be able to hide it from anybody. I threw on a Yellowstone hoodie and pulled the drawstrings so that none of  hair (or lack thereof) was visible. As I walked up to the doorway it occured to me, I had no idea what to say, but she spotted me, and there was no going back. 

I had a couple of options for how I could phrase this but I chose to go with “Please, can I shave my head?” She looked up from the book she was reading and narrowed her eyes at me before asking, “What did you do to your hair?” I stood there silently, there was nothing I could say that would make sense when I said it out loud. My mom is a lawyer, I don’t know if she took a class in interrogation or if they teach you how to look at someone until they confess, but it is a look that I would not wish upon my worst enemy. I didn’t want to tell her, but I was desperate to fix this. 

She gasped at first when I uncovered my head, and then after a “what on earth did you do???” followed by a few moments of silence, she broke down laughing and looked at me “Havana,” she said “It’s just never boring with you.”