Below is a snippet of my hope-to-be-published memoir, Autohairography. If you know of a publisher that’s nice and likes quirky girls, please email me!
[image credit: jackie luo]
1983-1987. the good, the bald and the ugly.
I was supposed to be a boy. In fact, my parents were ecstatic with the realization that they wouldn’t be raising three girls, just two. And a boy. A lovely little boy.
Until I emerged from the womb with one less rather prominent attachment than previously expected. I believe my mother wept, because what else does one do in such situations? Indeed, they would raise three girls. Three lovely little girls.
I was carried from the hospital in a baby blue velour sleeper. It was all my parents had packed, thinking they’d be toting a miniature Michael in the car seat. Instead, I was named Erin, but I sort of felt that ‘Erin’ was always a half-boy name anyway, so. You know. Total cop-out.
It just so happened that under that blue velour sleeper that quite resembled Missy Eliot’s daily attire was indeed, the head of a boy. In that it was bald. No hair. Nada. Not even some peach fuzz. Strictly and utterly bald.
My parents were not sympathetic. In fact, my baldness fit perfectly into their tiny baby box, complete with two footprints and an embroidered ‘Michael’ on the top.
It was a clear omen. My hair [or lack thereof] would continue to define me for the next twenty-six years.