The Dreaded Haircut
Natalie Wong

As brown ringlets of hair fall to the ground, I quench my eyes closed, I try to ignore that those ringlets are in fact, mine. Just knowing there are scissors close to my neck and ears is enough to make me clench my teeth a little bit harder and close my eyes a little bit tighter. Every time I hear the metal slice another piece of hair off, I cringe. Uh oh. She must have done something wrong, I know it, I just know it. I can’t bring myself to open my eyes to check, so I just jump to conclusions and worry and clench my glasses  I hold in my hands tighter and tighter, because my mind won’t stop thinking about it for another 20 minutes. What if it’s all gone? What if she cut it all off? Maybe she messed up! What if she didn’t do what I asked her to do? What if -- my thoughts are interrupted by a voice. "Done!" the hair dresser says. I slowly open one eye at a time. I look in the mirror but all I see is a blur. I suddenly remember the glasses in my hands I put them on and examine my new hair. Not bad, not bad at all. A success, although I went through all that worrying and tension, I have gotten through yet another dreaded hair cut.



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Natalie Wong
  Martin, an acoustic guitar, just hanging out in the corner until he is needed to listen and understand when no one else does. Light comes in from the only window on the far wall. Sun light shining on the table and two chairs in the middle of the room, pushed against the bed. A bed pushed up against the back wall. White drapery complimenting the green wall effortlessly as it flows down to the ground in a casual, yet elegant fashion. A vanity mirror hung on the wall, constantly whispering ‘yes’ and ‘no’ every time there is another boring outfit tried on. A closet that has been filled with to many shoes and dresses that are not really needed, but always wanted. Shelves stuffed with boxes, notebooks, and miscellaneous items. A vanity that doubles as storage for socks and uniforms; it also hold millions of photos of friends, family, and distant memories. An old boom box on top of some makeshift shelves housing many books and journals. This room has no back splash or accent wall. It just has some posters of plays and pictures. It is a bit worn down, but I like it; maybe it is because it is green, or pretty, or maybe it is because it is my room.

The Hair on Our Heads
Natalie Wong
My mommy’s hair is blonde, just like a sunny day in summer.
My daddy’s hair is black, just like the night’s sky.
My sister’s hair was brown, but she dyed it black to be rebellious.
My hair is brown, it used to be gold and blonde, but I guess God had another plan for me early on.
My mommy’s hair is short, because she is to busy to take care of long hair.
My daddy’s hair stands up on the top of his head, like grass, and never lies down because it is to short and thin from all of his hard work.
My sister’s hair is medium, she likes to cut it herself because she doesn’t want the people at the salon to ruin her hair, but I think it looks fine the way it is.
My hair is long. It flows down, just like a waterfall. I like it like that, just like a waterfall.