Today, I was all like, “I am going to get so much done today. I’m going to finish my journal on A Midsummer Night’s Dream, write my essay on Frankenstein, and do a butt-load of studying for the three quizzes that I need to make up in AP Government and Politics. And I did/am doing it.
Miraculously, I was able to write the essay without having a panic attack. I required lots of breaks and there were two-and-a-half glasses of orange juice involved, but that essay is complete. Complete, complete, complete. It’s been hanging out on my to-do list, making me anxious, since December. And now it’s done. All I have left to make up in AP English is a long essay on The Heart of Darkness, which I’m sure I will enjoy doing. And even that essay is already outlined.
But that isn’t the important part. Sure, it’s a triumph, but the essay-writing story gets a lot more interesting.
Watching me write that essay is probably quite amusing. There’s a lot of sighing, hand wringing, groaning, lip chewing, and running of my hands through my hair. When I was in therapy today, I ran my hand through my hair, as I am wont to do, and noticed a bump. So when I was writing the final paragraph and getting increasingly frustrated, I put my hand in my hair and leaned on my elbow that was resting on the desk. When I drew my hand away, after a minute of deep breathing, a piece of my scalp came away with it. Yes, a piece of my scalp. It was a circle about a centimeter in diameter and there was hair attached to the skin. My first thought was, This is just like the Indians and the scalps they got by scalping people! Cool!
Soon, reality set in, and I realized that my head was bleeding and that I was literally holding a piece of my scalp in my hand. And it wasn’t so cool anymore. I tried cleaning it with peroxide, which was an abject failure because I was so scared that I would end up bleaching my hair with it that I didn’t get enough on it to fizz. (I learned that from The Outsiders, a book I throughly hated, in seventh grade.) Now, I’m walking around the house, with my hair pinned out of the way and sticking up in funny directions. My mother is freaked out, and I think that I look like a lunatic.
I have a big scar on the back of my head from when I was little and fell off of the chair I was spinning in circles on and hit my head against our steel and glass coffee table. Thankfully, it’s well hidden by my hair, and is low enough that it doesn’t even show up when I pull my hair half back. But if this scars the way the other one did and the hair doesn’t re-grow, I’m going to have to walk around with a really obvious bald spot right in the front of my head. Lovely.
At the very least, this should make for an interesting story to tell when people ask me tomorrow about my weekend. Well, this and my trip to the city.