Alyson+Memoir

A Tangled Mess “Alyson, why is your hair growing in like this?” My mom asked as she was cutting my hair one evening. She had asked me this question a few times every month. “I don’t know,” I responded. Despite her continuous questioning, I never answered honestly. The reason why the hair on the top of my head was growing in like spikes and the reason why the game piece of one of my favorite games was broken were the same: I had tried to braid my hair. I was always annoyed with my hair. It was too straight, always tangled, and I could never put it up into ponytails and half-ponytails like the other girls could. I desperately desired to fix it. For my eighth birthday, I had received the game Fraidy Cats from my parents. Each game token was a cat, which could clip on to the red fence posts surrounding the cardboard yard. After each player had taken his or her turn, the yellow bulldog was set loose. It rammed into the fence posts in attempt to knock off the cats. If a player’s cat was knocked off, the player had to start from the beginning. A few weeks after my birthday, I decided to examine the bulldog to see how it worked. I turned the plastic dog onto its back. On the underside of the dog, there were two small wheels attached to a circular plate, which was locked onto the dog’s stomach. This enabled it to spin in circles while moving back and forth. This contraption had given me an idea. I believed that the game piece would be able to fix the irritation I felt with my hair. I thought that the plastic dog would produce the same effect as the Conair Braider. Because it had no place to put separate strands of hair, the bulldog would twist my hair into somewhat larger braids than the Conair Braider would allow. At six o’clock on the following day, I put my plan into action. While everyone was outside, I walked into the family room and snatched Fraidy Cats from the game cabinet. I quickly pulled off the lid and gazed at the answer to my prayers. I grabbed what was going to be my new hair dresser: the yellow, plastic bulldog. I believed myself to be a genius. Not only was my hair going to look fabulous, but it would also be inexpensive and easy. However, I overlooked one detail: I was an eight-year-old girl who had no ability to think about things logically. I had never braided my hair; I had only seen people braiding hair. That did not apply to what I was about to do. I was using a braiding device. And I was not able to mimic the actions of the girls on the Conair commercials. So I improvised. I gathered a large section of hair that grew in at the top on my head and placed the ends near the wheels on the dog. I turned the dog on and immediately felt a painful tug on my head. I quickly turned it off and examined the progress I had made. Much to my disappointment, there was no progress, only a huge problem. My hair was knotted and twisted around the wheels and the circular plate on the underside of the dog. I attempted to remove my hair from the turning plate, but it kept a firm grip on the hair. No matter how much I pulled on my hair, it would not free itself from its captor, the evil bulldog. I believed there to be a reverse switch on the dog, which would make the dog spin in the opposite direction in the game. By using that switch, I could potentially escape from the clutches of my new foe. I was wrong. There was no reverse switch. I once again turned on the dog. I winced in pain and tears started forming in my eyes as the dog once again ate my hair. When I turned the dog off, it was a few centimeters from my head. It was then that I realized I only had two options: I could ask my parents to assist me in my time of need or I could cut my hair. If I asked my parents for help, I would have gotten in trouble for my stupidity. And I didn’t feel comfortable cutting my hair, but I saw no other way. If I left the dog in my hair, the force of the pulling would have ripped my hair out of my head and leave me bald. While holding the dog above my head and being careful not to pull my hair, I sprinted to my backpack. I dumped books and papers onto the floor in order to find my pencil box. When I grabbed it out of my bag, I opened it immediately and picked up my purple-handled safety scissors. I pulled the handles apart and prepared for the hair cut. I held the open scissors next to my hair for what seemed like hours. I was beginning to have second thoughts. I thought that maybe I would mess that up as well. I was wrong about the dog braiding my hair. But either way, the dog would have to be cut out of my hair. So I closed my eyes and braced myself for future misery. I placed the scissors as close as possible to my scalp and snipped. I was free, but my dog was destroyed. The large clump of hair dangled from the bottom, so I snipped that away as well. At least then nobody would think someone had put it in their hair. I threw the hair in the trashcan, placed the dog in its box, and put the box back in the family room. I prayed nobody would play Fraidy Cats that night. In fact, I prayed that same prayer the next night and the night after that. If I was lucky, nobody would find out about my secret. Nobody did. When questioned about why the dog had hair in its wheels, I lied. To this day, nobody knows what happened to the game.