(gap: 2s) In the small town where I grew up, the days seemed to stretch endlessly beneath a sky the colour of faded denim, and the rules that governed our lives were as unyielding as the iron gates at the end of our street. I was the middle child—wedged between an older sister, four years my senior, and a younger brother whose laughter echoed through the house like wind chimes. My sister, who still lived at home, had long since outgrown the need for discipline, or so it seemed. She moved with a quiet grace, her hair always perfectly brushed, her manners as polished as the Sunday silver. My parents rarely had to raise their voices to her, let alone their hands; she was as proper as a Sunday hat, and I often felt like a wild weed growing in her shadow.
When discipline was required in our home, it arrived with the certainty of a summer thunderstorm—swift, sharp, and impossible to ignore. A scolding could cut through the air like the snap of a twig, a sharp word could sting more than a scraped knee, and on rare occasions, a spanking would follow—always over our clothes, always with a firm but measured hand. Except, of course, for the day I am about to recount, when the lesson would be delivered not with a palm, but with the cold, unyielding back of a hairbrush.
I was a wild and unruly child, my knees perpetually stained with mud and my hair a tangled halo of rebellion. The world of dolls and dainty tea sets held no interest for me; I preferred the thrill of climbing trees, the rush of wind in my face, and the freedom of scraped elbows. My parents, in their wisdom—or perhaps desperation—enrolled me in ballet lessons, hoping that the discipline of dance might tame my wild spirit and teach me the grace that seemed to come so naturally to my sister.
In my ballet class was a girl who was a friend of my sister’s—a prim and proper sort, with her hair always in a perfect bun and her shoes spotless. She delighted in reporting my every mischief to my sister, who in turn relayed it to my parents with a look of grave concern. I considered her my greatest adversary, and I made it my mission to vex her at every opportunity, whether by pulling faces behind her back or “accidentally” stepping on her toes during pliés.
Yet, nothing vexed my parents more than my hair. It was thick, wild, and impossible to tame—a living thing that seemed to resist every attempt at order. I loathed brushing it; the bristles would catch on knots, tugging at my scalp until my eyes watered. Most mornings, I would give it a cursory tug, barely disturbing the tangles, before dashing out the door, leaving a trail of unruly curls in my wake. My mother and father had warned me time and again to keep it neat, but their words slid off me like water off a duck’s back. One day, in a fit of defiance, I decided not to bother at all, simply tying it back in a haphazard ponytail before ballet, the elastic biting into my scalp.
That day, the air in the ballet studio was thick with the scent of resin and sweat. My sister’s friend was in class, whispering and casting sidelong glances at me with another girl. I ignored them, pulling faces when I thought no one was looking, my cheeks flushed with the thrill of rebellion. I had no inkling of the storm that was gathering at home, no sense of the tension coiling like a spring behind my mother’s eyes.
When I returned, the house was heavy with silence, the kind that presses against your skin and makes your heart beat faster. My mother was waiting, her face set in a mask of thunderclouds. She drew me into the bedroom I shared with my sister, the air thick with the scent of lavender and old wood. Without a word, she seized the heavy hairbrush from the dresser—its polished wood gleaming in the afternoon light—and began to drag it through my tangled curls. Each stroke was agony, the bristles catching and pulling, and I could not help but cry out, my scalp burning. My sister lingered in the hallway, her lips curled in a smirk, her eyes bright with a mixture of triumph and pity. I shouted at her to leave me be, my voice cracking with pain and humiliation.
My outburst was the final straw. My mother’s eyes flashed with a fury I had never seen before. She raised the hairbrush and delivered a single, resounding smack to my bottom—one that stung through my jeans and sent a jolt of shock up my spine. “Do you know how mortifying it is to have a stranger complain about your daughter’s appearance?” she cried, her voice trembling with anger and hurt. With that, she struck my left cheek with the brush, making it two smacks in total. We stood before the great mirror on my dresser, and I could see my sister behind us, her hand pressed to her mouth to stifle her laughter, her eyes wide with disbelief.
I was furious—my cheeks burning, my pride wounded. This was all because of my sister and her meddlesome friend. “I am sorry!” I pleaded, my voice thick with tears, but my mother’s anger only grew, her grip on the brush tightening.
“You are a disgrace! I have warned you time and again to keep yourself presentable!” she shrieked, her voice echoing off the walls like a slap. She brought the brush down on my right cheek—three smacks now, each one a lesson in obedience, each one searing through the fabric of my jeans and into my memory. My bottom burned, and I hopped away, desperate to escape the sting, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
But my mother’s patience had run out. She seized my wrist with a grip like iron and bent me over the dresser, the cool wood pressing into my stomach. I begged her not to spank me, promising through sobs to be good and to brush my hair every day. She would not be swayed. With a howl of indignation, I felt the hairbrush descend again and again—four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten smacks, each one echoing in the room and in my memory, each one a sharp explosion of pain that left me breathless and trembling.
I danced from foot to foot, howling with each blow, my tears falling hot and fast onto the polished floorboards. At last, she stopped. I looked up and saw only my sister’s face in the mirror, her laughter ringing in my ears, her eyes shining with a mixture of glee and disbelief. “I hate you!” I shouted at her, my cheeks burning with shame and fury, my voice raw.
My mother did not tolerate such defiance. She pressed me down once more, her hand heavy on my back, and with a stern expression, delivered five more smacks—eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen in total—each one a reminder that insolence would not be endured. I began to cry in earnest, my modesty wounded as much as my pride, my sobs filling the room and mingling with the fading echoes of the hairbrush.
The hairbrush landed squarely in the centre of my bottom with a loud, echoing crack. I hopped from one leg to the other, clenching my cheeks in a futile attempt to lessen the sting, but this only made her spank harder. Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty smacks—each one a lesson in humility and obedience, each one burning hotter than the last. My face burned with shame, my bottom throbbed with pain, and the world seemed to shrink to the four walls of that bedroom and the relentless rhythm of the hairbrush.
What stung most of all was the knowledge that I deserved every smack. Forced to watch myself in the mirror, I saw a wild, tear-streaked child receiving the punishment she had earned, her defiance crumbling with each blow.
I can still see my red, tear-streaked face as my mother delivered the final blows, the room spinning with pain and humiliation. My sister, to this day, delights in recalling that afternoon, her laughter as bright and sharp as the memory itself. Even now, I squirm with embarrassment whenever she brings it up, the sting of that day never quite fading.
When my mother was finished, she ordered me to stand in the corner for ten minutes—a new and mortifying punishment. I stood there, my nose pressed to the wallpaper, the scent of lavender and dust filling my nostrils, my lesson well and truly learned. The minutes crawled by, each second stretching into eternity as I sniffled and wiped my tears, my bottom aching, my pride in tatters.
That evening, as the golden light faded and the house settled into its familiar hush, I overheard my mother explaining to my father that I required a firmer hand than my siblings. From that day, my father would sometimes use his belt when I was truly disobedient, but only when I had earned
