When I was in fifth grade, my hair was starting to grow back from the horribly bad pageboy haircut my mom forced me to get in fourth grade after refusing to brush my hair while I screamed ever again. To set the time frame, krimpers, those hair irons that made your hair look like it had been braided for weeks, had just come out and were the hottest thing you could possibly ever think of. This was also around the time in my elementary school career that three-ring-binders were required and the Virgo in me loved the idea of keeping things organized with little color-coded tabs and using hole reinforcers to make sure those important papers in there. Therefore, having a hole-puncher was an absolute necessity.
I was sitting in Mrs. Walko's math class. She taught fifth grade when my brother was that age, took some time off to raise her kids and her first year back after her hiatus was my class (needless to say, she retired after she was done with us). She used to throw chalk at us when we were being goofy or got something wrong, and I'll never forget how Herbie Mitchele caught it once and she fired an eraser at him in response. She would count in French at the top of her lungs and hit her diamond ring on the chalkboard when she was trying to make a point.
Math was never my strong point and I was often frustrated or tuned out. I was playing with my slowly growing hair and looking at this other girl who had really long straight hair that was perfectly krimped and thought that punching holes in my hair might result in a similar effect. So I'd take a section of my hair, flatten it out, and punch a hole in it, then drop it back down to see how the hole would look against the rest of my hair. But I would always lose it. Obviously, I wasn't watching close enough, so I did it again. No hole. Again. No hole. Punch the hole, drop the hair real fast so I wouldn't miss where it went.
Mrs. Walko started hitting that ring of hers against the chalkboard again and barked out, "Megan, stop cutting your hair and pay attention."
All I could think of was, "What do you mean, cutting my hair? I'm just punching holes in it, dummy."
This anecdote has been brought to you by sheer boredom and a strange impulse to post.