I can still remember the time when I wanted to be an adult, really bad. It was a kind summer. I was just eight. Kids were playing on the ground. When I am saying kids, I am talking about the “kids” a year or more younger than me. I never wanted to be called a kiddo or ‘kids’. None should have made the mistake. But one person did.
The weather brought cool breeze. Unlike in movies, the bangs of my hair were swinging wildly with the wind. Man, my mom, who happens to be a hairdresser doesn’t seem to know my struggle. No, I never had one of those moments when my hair flows perfectly against the wind to catch anyone’s attention. Nobody did. At least that’s what I thought. Continue reading