banged

“You know, there are actually things I don’t know about,” I was telling Marina as she brushed my hair with amazing agility (yes, really – not dexterity, agility). I was beginning an impassioned treatise on, oh, whatever I usually begin impassioned rants about (cruelty to animals as indicative of political leanings? sesame seeds vs. poppy seeds as decorative seed choice? who knows) when she cut me off, smiling and nodding. “Because you’re a child,” she said happily “So what do you know about anything?” I frowned. “I would not go so far as to say I’m a child, Marina, especially since – ” I had caught sight of myself in the mirror, and my heart sank. I was looking at my new haircut.

I was looking at the shortest bangs I’d ever seen in real life, short and rather rat-chewed. Of course she was calling me a child. She’d just given me a five year old’s haircut.

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