I had short hair during most of my early childhood, as long hair gave my grandmother the heebie-jeebies. She would take scissors to it whenever she chose, which would then create an explosion when my brother and I returned home after a weekend with our grandparents. As she was grossed out just touching my long hair, I recall her saying that someone she knew when she was young had a head full of lice. She could barely contain herself talking and shivering about it as the scissors snipped-snipped my hair. Once, she cut my hair so short (and so badly) that a hairdresser had to cut it super short to fix it, and it was so short that my mother bought me a wig to wear to school (!!!!) until my hair grew out. Unfortunately, school pictures were taken while I wore the wig (perhaps why she bought the wig?), and I have evidence. I will look for that photograph. =\

back to the wedding

The wedding memory is fuzzy around the edges, but what has stayed with me is the ring bearer. Yeah, me and boys. What is surprising is the infatuation at such an early age, our connection, like adults. I believe I saw him one more time during childhood. We kissed at the swings, don’t know where, but it must have been somewhere related to the wedding — it’s what brought us together.