Brigham Young University
Monday morning
I woke up to the most incredible feeling of dread. In those few moments of re-orientation while reaching consciousness, the full force of what had happened last night hit me. I ran my fingers along the side of my head, feeling the faint stubble on my fingertips and hardly believing what I had done.
"Ah, well, what's done is done," I sighed to myself, getting out of bed.
I grabbed my hairbrush and went to look in the mirror on the closet door. As I stood there brushing the remains of my hair -- the right side -- to a glossy sheen, I had to admit that it was rather striking as a look, although strange.
Just then Janie got back from her shower and saw me. She gasped, and her eyes opened wide behind her thick glasses.
"Oh, my heck!" she exclaimed, horrified. "What did you do to your hair?"
"The other girls talked me into it," I meekly replied. I then immediately started mentally kicking myself for feeling apologetic in the face of her self-righteous attitude. "I think it looks kind of cool, though, don't you? Why always follow the crowd when you can start a new trend?"
"You're not going to start a new trend like that, you look like a freak!"
"Now, Janie, is that really a Christlike attitude?" I asked her in a tone of mock-sweetness.
"Humph!" she sniffed, "I'll never understand you feminists. If you were really so proud to be a woman, you wouldn't be ashamed to look like one!"
"So you're saying that this hairstyle makes me look like a man?" I asked.
"You look like a lesbian!"
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