Vanity in the Winter of Seventh Grade Or Confession

As a middle schooler, I liked the way snowflakes clung to my long, mahogany hair. I liked having big strong boots and thick coats with fur on the hood, my softly curled hair resplendent across my shoulders. I imagined I looked strong, something worthy of a double take. I really had no idea if the snowflakes, catching in my hair and eyelashes, ever made anyone look twice, but I never wore hats, just in case someone, even once, just once, would look to see the perfect melting white spots the way I did, like pearls in the hair of a bride or stars in a great black sky. I claimed, when people asked, that I didn’t wear hats because the cold didn’t affect me, but only because that was easier than saying, “I think I am beautiful.”

For the record, my ears got pretty cold.