The One That Burned

Feedback: I'm at 654 words so I will take any suggestions for cutting it down. Also, please tell me if this essay includes enough vulnerability and needs help with the conclusion.

What objects tell the story of your life?

There is one thing, and one thing only, that has been a part of my life like nothing else. I’m speaking, of course, about my robe. Its sky blue cloth dotted with white circles to make a simple but elegant design. Its fuzziness which keeps me warm in the midst of winter. This robe has been with me for a long time, and contains many stories within its fabric.

It all began one Christmas morning seven years ago. My sister and I were in the midst of a fierce battle. Wrapping paper was flying through the air, our cats were attacking whatever landed on the floor, and the gifts lay scattered across the floor when I made a discovery. Tucked underneath the tree, was a rather large box that had escaped my gift opening frenzy. I was curious as to what it could be since it was bigger than the rest of my presents but it weighed very little. As I unwrapped the gift, my heart sank. Lying inside was every kid’s least favorite present, clothes. In this case, a ginormous robe that dragged across the floor and barely clung to my body.

Naturally, the robe was thrown into the back of my closet and forgotten. It wasn’t until seventh grade when I rediscovered the robe and found that I could actually wear it without it dragging everywhere. Unaccustomed to the Illinois winters, since I had moved from Georgia only one year before, the robe quickly became an important part of my daily life. Everyday, I would wake up, put my robe on, and get ready for school. Only when it was absolutely necessary, I would take off the robe and lose its warmth.

As I moved on from the awkward pre-teen years, the robe stayed with me. Since it was already too big, I didn’t have to worry about outgrowing it, but I was constantly lugging it around and dropping it. As a result of dragging my robe around everywhere, the tail end of the robe became very dirty. Not in the sense that it was covered in stains and smelled, but rather its color began to diminish. Not only was the vibrant blue beginning to disappear and turned a more robin egg color (imagine light blue except mixed with gray), but the sleeves were gradually fraying and falling apart. Five years after the robe had entered my life, it was preparing to leave. But, I refused to bow to time. I repaired the sleeves as best I could and cleaned it as much as possible (although it didn’t make too much of a difference) and it actually seemed to be returning to its former glory. The robe was going to make it! Then, tragedy struck.

During my sophomore year, I was in the kitchen cooking dinner (something that does not occur often) when I noticed something peculiar. There was smoke rising from somewhere but I couldn’t find the source. I checked the stove, the oven, even the sink but couldn’t find it. Suddenly, it disappeared. I shrugged and continued cooking. Then, my sister came in and said, “Oh my god! What happened to your robe?” Apparently, without even knowing it, I had caught myself on fire. The robe had suffered from some serious smoke stains on its back and its rope that tied it together was almost burnt in half. Luckily, nothing serious happened but I knew the robe wasn’t going to recover from this.

As of now, I still have the robe. Sure, it might be a little ragged but it holds up. Every day, my mother complains that I should just “get rid of the robe and buy a new one.” But, this robe represents so much more to me. Its fabric contains so many stories and helps me relax in times of stress. This robe may be on its last leg but it will forever remain in my heart.

Bob and Braces

Have you ever felt embarrassed by the things that you used to like?

Yes, it would be impossible to say I haven’t had my fair share of embarrassments and regrets in my life. For example, back in the day, I had a penchant for ripping off my clothes and running around in my birthday suit. Sometimes, I’d dig out a big, fluffy tutu and wear that around my waist but refuse to put on anything else. No shirt, no pants, and no underwear. Of course, I was only four or five so my behavior makes a little more sense, but it’s only natural to feel a little embarrassed by my war against society’s restrictions. Yet, I feel a certain pride in my old wild spirit. She didn’t care and did what she wanted with no regrets. But, that could last for only so long. In a couple years time, I would make one of the worst decisions of my life.

It was 2010. My family had just moved from hot and humid Southeast Georgia to flat and dry central Illinois. On top of that, my once bright, fine hair was beginning to darken to a dirty blonde. Least to say, I was not happy. While I was able to handle the transition well enough, the fact that I was losing my natural hair color was astonishing. There was a now a distinct line across my head; it was a fight between the light and the dark. To understand my next move, you must understand that at the time, I hated hairstyles that blended multiple colors. There was something about dipping your hair in dye and being stuck with a new color that simultaneously terrified and angered me. Despite its usefulness in this situation, dye was just not an option. As a result, this ongoing battle between my bright blonde and dirty blonde hair was hard for me to deal with. I had to figure out a way to fix it without coloring my hair. Then, I came to a terrible decision. I was going to chop it off.

At the time, bobs were the fashion of sixth grade society. A bob, in case you don’t know, is a hairstyle that is really short in the back and gets longer as you near the face. And, I knew I wanted one. Once I got to the salon and told everyone my idea, they tried to talk me out of it, but I refused to listen to reason. No, even better, I decided to get a bob that would not only chop off my blonde but ride just along my jaw for extra style. However, what I was imagining was not what happened in reality. My hair, normally straight and fine, poofed out to the side and rose higher than my jawline so that it was more around mid-cheek. In addition, my head looked ginormous within the confines of this tiny haircut. Yet I had convinced myself that this was the right decision, and that I looked amazing.

For those in disbelief, I present "the haircut"
and my fabulous sister, Gabby.

I strutted out of that salon with a sense of superiority. My new haircut demonstrated my professional skill (since I had the “sharp jawline” look) and built up my confidence in making decisions. Unfortunately, it wasn’t long after the haircut that I created the worst combo in the history of middle school -- bob and braces. With my teeth trapped in a metal cage and my hair falling slightly past my ears, seventh grade was especially brutal. While I never made the connection between that awful haircut and its effect on my social life, I realize now that that bob was a terrible mistake. Even today, I very rarely show anyone pictures from that time period. The embarrassment is just too much. If there’s one thing I could say to twelve year old Lauren, it would be to just consider dye and don’t trust yourself with scissors.