Day 25- A First

MY FIRST SELF-INFLICTED HAIRCUT

I was about five years old. I had taken the scissors from my mom's craft drawer and ran into my bedroom. My Mom said when I was quiet and locked away in my room, she always had to be ready for whatever it was I got myself into.

I decided I wanted different bangs...Actually, I didn't want bangs anymore. I cut them all off on one side and decided the other side was cool being there. I also wanted layers, so I cut in some of those too. All over. I carefully hid my hair and the scissors under my bed and went on to playing with my toys

About twenty minutes later my Mom came in to check on me. She instantly noticed my hair and got upset. I denied, denied, denied, until finally she had to search my room. She found my little stash of chopped hair along with scissors (and I'm sure many other things that went "missing" around our house) under my bed. I finally fessed up. As punishment, my Mom took me to get my hair "fixed" and I came home with a very short, very BOY haircut. Needless to say, I never cut my own hair again!

MY FIRST EMERGENCY CLINIC VISIT

My Mom had a very old wooden bedroom set. Bed, armoire, dresser, and vanity. The bed was fairly high off the ground (for a little six year old, anyway) and had wooden slats underneath supporting the rest of the frame, as well as the mattress. I loved playing under the bed. It was like my sanctuary.

One day while I was under the bed, my usual ritual, I decided I needed to put my feet on the slats (in a way like I was possibly pushing the bed up like Super Woman). I thought it felt good to rub my feet back and forth on the wood. You see, I have an infatuation with my feet being rubbed, tickled, massaged, what have you. I have since I was little, obviously. Well, wood being wood, a two inch splinter detached from the wood slat and entered the middle of my foot. I remember how painful it was.

I removed myself from under the bed and hopped out to my Mom. She kept asking me what was wrong with my foot (as I hopped on one leg throughout the halls) and I kept telling her it was fine. She finally got me to sit down, looked at my foot, and saw how bad it was. She called my Dad over, he tried to inspect it. They both realized I needed to go to the Clinic for splinter removal.

Once we were at the clinic, five Army medics needed to hold me down, along with my Mom and Dad, because I REFUSED to sit still for the situation. I kicked, screamed, punched, cried. I finally entered into a state of delirium. I had convinced myself that I was near death. I fervently told my Dad to pass on my love to my Grandma and Grandpa because I was going to miss them the most (aside from Mom and Dad). I also needed to fill my six year old brain with all the knowledge of my family. I asked what color eyes all my family members had. Finally, before I took my final breath, I asked my Dad what color my eyes were. He said, "They're green, Caiti. They are a mixture of mine and Mom's. You have pretty eyes."

Much to my parent's approval (and my disappointment in the not-so-dramatic ending), I survived the incident, and lived to tell the tale. They had to cut out the splinter that had entered. I still have a tiny scar on the bottom of my foot. I still feel "phantom pains" (I swear it!) whenever I'm grossed out or experiencing pain in another part of my body. It's the strangest thing.