(gap: 1s) The earliest memory I can summon is but a fleeting wisp, as delicate as the scent of lavender on a summer’s breeze. I cannot say with certainty how old I was—my mother would later insist I was scarcely more than three, a slip of a girl with curls as wild as the North Sea wind and a spirit to match.
Our home was a modest council flat, its thistle-patterned wallpaper and coal fire lending a certain warmth against the ever-present Scottish chill. My family was not grand, but there was a sense of order and pride in our little world. My father, a man of gentle humour, and my mother, always so proper and composed, filled our days with music and laughter, even as the shipyard horns echoed in the distance. My brother Jeff, with his irrepressible dimples, was the darling of every photograph, while I—so I was told—resembled Shirley Temple, all ringlets and mischief, though perhaps with less grace and more determination.
In the evenings, when the grown-ups entertained, I was permitted to join for a short while, my heart fluttering with excitement as I sang, played the piano, or danced with my father for the assembled guests. The glow of the coal fire, the gentle clink of teacups, and the soft murmur of conversation made those moments feel magical. But all too soon, Nanny would appear, her presence as brisk and efficient as the starched linen she folded, to whisk me away to the nursery. There, she would read to me, her voice soothing as she tucked me beneath the heavy woollen blankets, the world of adults fading into a gentle hush.
(short pause) It was on one such day, with the scent of baking bread drifting from the kitchen and the faint strains of the wireless in the background, that temptation proved too much for me. The seamstress’s sewing drawer, usually forbidden, beckoned with its promise of adventure. I remember the cool metal of the scissors in my small hand, the thrill of doing something so daring. Climbing onto my knees at the dressing table, I gazed into the mirror, my curls tumbling about my face. With a mixture of curiosity and determination, I snipped away at the front and sides, watching the golden ringlets fall like petals to the floor. The sound was soft, almost secretive—a gentle snick, snick, snick—yet it felt momentous, as though I were changing the very shape of myself.
When the deed was done, a pang of worry fluttered in my chest. I gathered the shorn curls in trembling hands, hiding them carefully beneath my bed, and returned the scissors to their place with the utmost care. I smoothed my dress, hoping no one would notice, and tiptoed back to the nursery, my heart thumping with a mixture of pride and dread.
(pause) The afternoon sun slanted through the window as Nanny entered, arms laden with freshly laundered linen. She set the pile upon my bed, and in an instant, the secret was revealed—curls tumbling from their hiding place like a magician’s trick gone awry. “What in the world…?” she exclaimed, her voice sharp with surprise. She swept from the room, her footsteps echoing down the corridor, and returned moments later with my mother, whose face was pale and drawn.
I sensed the gravity of the moment, though I could not fully comprehend it. Clutching my teddy bear, I climbed onto the bed, thumb in mouth, seeking comfort in the familiar softness. My mother’s eyes glistened with tears, her composure slipping as she surveyed the damage. I knew, somehow, that it was about my hair, but I could not fathom how they had discovered my secret. No one, after all, had looked beneath the bed—yet the evidence was undeniable.
(dramatic pause) What followed remains a blur of confusion and sorrow. I recall being lifted, turned over someone’s knees—whose, I cannot say, for my mother herself would later confess she was too distraught to remember. The spanking was long and hard, the sting of it mingling with my own sobs. I remember the sensation of being small and helpless, the world suddenly so much larger and colder than before. My mother was there, her presence a mixture of anguish and resolve, and I sensed that the punishment was as much for her heartbreak as for my disobedience.
When it was over, Nanny fetched her own scissors. I sat, cheeks wet with tears, as she trimmed away the remaining curls, her movements brisk but not unkind. The snipping sound was now sharp and final, each lock falling away a small surrender.
