Cartwheel

1. September, 1979, Wednesday morning.
I’m plaiting my long blonde hair, carefully, symmetrically, making sure the parting is impeccable and the bangs just right. I pause and look at my reflection in the mirror; I consider adding little red bows. This afternoon is important, I’m going to my very first gymnastics class. I wonder if they’ll like my hair.

2. Wednesday afternoon.
The gym is crammed full of 5, 6, 7 year olds wearing red leotards and white gym shoes. No one gives a shit about my plaits and their little bows. I can’t even do a cartwheel yet, I’ve so lost my edge. I can’t bear the thought of not being special but I won’t cry. When I go home at 4, I’ve lost the bows anyway.

3. October, 2005, Tuesday morning.
What to wear, what to wear. This afternoon, my Spanish class is starting.

4. Some things never change.