I'm giving away my age here, once again, by admitting this; but, I also had a fountain pen. I tried to neatly record my daily happenings in my few allotted lines. It actually was pretty easy because not much was going on. The romantic side of me thought if anything ever happened to me, my loved ones could find this diary and read from my neatly penned prose and discover how brilliant I really was and what a tragedy my life was cut short.
I know. I had quite the dramatic imagination.
Maybe they would have opened up the diary to read that one day during summer vacation:
"Dear Diary, Today, Grandma Sybil dyed my hair strawberry blonde. Boy, was my dad mad!"
Not many twelve-year-olds in the late sixties dyed their hair. Now, of course, no one would blink an eye over this, but at the time, my parents thought this was a tragedy of epic proportions. The main source of their outrage was the fact that Grandma did this. Without. Asking. Permission.
I don't know why she did it. Looking back, it seemed it was a spur of the moment decision. I complained about the color of my hair mainly because someone had hurt my feelings describing my hair as "dishwater blonde." I felt it made my hair sound nasty. My life would be so much better if I were an attractive strawberry blonde. (I had gotten the phrase "strawberry blonde" out of a book.) Perhaps, probably, I had driven my Grandma crazy with my whining.
One day, while at the store, she noticed a box of Miss Clairol marked "strawberry blonde," and the rest was history.
Because my dad had yelled so much about the whole incident, Grandma would never again go near a box of Miss Clairol. Now I had a new problem: how to look attractive with dishwater blonde roots!
This post was written in response to Writer's Workshop prompt 1. Share a diary entry from when you were younger…feel free to make one up! I felt this totally true story would be perfect for this prompt.
For more zany responses, visit Kat's blog, "Mama's Losin' It."