Age 5, kindergarten.
I’m not sure who I’m “supposed to be” at this point. I only know that I like my teacher and Trixie, my daycare lady. I love my family. I love chocolate and cookies and spending time at my grandparents’ house across town. I don’t question who I am or where I come from because my life just is.
This is the year, however, when I crouch between my bed and the far bedroom wall and hack at my bangs with a scissors. Just before school pictures. Did I think I was being helpful? Had I requested that my bangs be trimmed? Was I simply curious? I don’t remember the why—only the how and where. Afterwards: The neighbor lady, a beautician, did her best to repair the damage I’d done; school photos immortalized my crooked bangs. (Interestingly, this is how I like to wear my bangs today: sharply angled rather than in an even line across my forehead. Maybe at age 5 I did know what I was doing after all.)