Nathaniel Laiet

A little effort was needed in convincing him that wearing the helmet was a worth while investment to make, even though it meant that he would no longer be able to feel the fresh musky evening air rush through his hair, splash across his face or push flies up through his nose.

And then we were off; the wind flowed over the tops of our helmets sucking out heads upwards from our necks and surely we would have flown had my brother stuck his arms out.
Our helmet straps were beating against our necks at 10 million RPMs leaving reds welt and stinging so badly that the pain told us we were living.

We were like cowboys. My bike that day was our steed as we galloped off into the sunset homeward bound.
But, we had to stop. The back tire went flat and our trusty steed would go no further (now you know the real reason behind cowboy movies ending when they do).

Misery!

Two cowboys with a broken steed are suited only for sitting and complaining about how life is difficult, unfair, miserable and unbearable! And I was going to make the most of the time I had to do just that.

There were two fallen power poles laying across the canal which I thought would serve perfectly for pacing while complaining.

I had paced only three steps when my brother had it in his mind that our time would better be spent trying to push me into the canal.

Life is unfair! My steed was broken and my brother was trying to push me into a canal.

But there was no time to consider these new facts, because it was necessary to direct all thought to directing my steps so as not to fall at my brother’s hand, for he is nimble and I am old.

So, time passed quickly while we waited for our slave, in the form of father to come pick us and our noble steed up.

I thought about how little time I had to moan because my brother gave me a push and wanted to play rather than pace and complain….

… and I thought that perhaps I would be happier too, if I left those things in life that I can’t control and which cause me anxiety by the road side.

I could instead give my Father a little push and say “Hey, let’s play while we wait!”

‘Like an angel,’ said Mrs. Dorton, next door.

‘I had hair like yours, when I was young,’ said old Miss Clover, Tracey’s Sunday school teacher. Miss Clover’s hair was grey and boofy now, like many of the old ladies at church.

Tracey’s big brother Malc didn’t like her hair, because it made some people think that Tracey was older than he was. But he did like showing off his pretty sister to his friends.

Tracey’s mum also had long, swishy hair. She could put it in a French plait all by herself, and sometimes did Tracey’s hair so they matched. Tracey didn’t know any other mothers whose hair matched their daughters’. Tracey gazed at her mum and tried hard not to think about her secret wish.

But Tracey was tired of her swishy hair. Every morning, mum had to tug and pull so it felt like there were tiny people playing tug-of-war with her head.

‘Ow!’ Tracey said, and squeezed her eyes tight to block out the pain. Tracey’s mum brushed gently, but it still hurt.

‘Nearly finished,’ said mum, ‘your hair is as elegant as a Christmas tree!’

Tracey chewed on her bottom lip and thought about her secret wish.

When Tracey and Malc rode their bikes to school, Tracey’s swishy hair flew up in the wind. She imagined it gliding along like a superman cape behind her.

But when she arrived at school, it was all tangled again like it had never been brushed. Tracey stomped across the playground and thought about her secret wish.

Tracey’s best friend Hannah always waited under the biggest pine tree for her. Hannah had short black hair, the kind that stuck out when her mum tied it in pigtails. Sometimes she wore pink ribbons in it, too. Hannah’s hair never got tangled up. Tracey looked at Hannah’s hair and thought about her secret wish.

Tracey’s swishy hair was the longest in her whole class. When they played hairdressers, everyone wanted to do Tracey’s hair.

‘I’m next!’ said Georgie.

‘And then me!’ said Melissa.

Tracey watched the boys playing kites and thought about her secret wish.

Sometimes, Tracey ate watermelon for afternoon tea. She loved the pink juice and the scrunch sound when she ate it on hot summer days. But her hair always got sticky, glued itself in clumps and stuck to her face.

When that happened, mum made her wash it, even if it wasn’t a hair-washing day. Tracey squeezed the shampoo bottle hard and thought about her secret wish.

One time, Tracey was unpacking her books from school. As she zipped up the backpack, a big strand of her swishy hair fell down and got caught in the zip. Tracey tried to pull the hair out, but it was stuck. She tried to tug the zipper open, but it was stuck too. Tracey was about to call her mum for help, but then she saw her dad’s scissors on the desk. Tracey stared at the scissors and thought about her secret wish.

Tracey picked up the scissors and looked at the hair caught in her bag.

‘I won’t be beautiful anymore,’ she thought, ‘but maybe…’

She closed her eyes and snipped the scissors. When she opened her eyes, there was more hair on the ground than had been stuck in her bag.

Tracey showed her mum the hair she had cut off.

‘Oh Tracey! Your beautiful hair!’ said mum.

Tracey looked at her shoes and hated her secret wish.

‘I’m sorry mum. Now I can’t be beautiful like you.’

Mum took Tracey’s face in her hands, and looked into her eyes.

‘You are beautiful, because you are Tracey,’ she said ‘and I love you, no matter how long your hair is!’

Tracey blinked, smiled, and hugged her mum. It was time to tell her about her secret wish. Tracey whispered it into mum’s ear.

Mum smiled.

‘Guess what?!’ she whispered back, ‘that’s my secret wish too!’