Scrunchy Identity Crisis: A Tiny Tale

We all wanted the same thing, and I was one of the first ones taken off the rack. A brand new scrunchy. Like the others, I was white decorated with a red emblem. I was edged with a fine, though lengthy, lace trim. A woman bought me and took me to her home. I was so excited to see the world.

Alas, she never wore me! She took me out of the bag, looked closely at me, and then returned me back to the dark bag and took me back to the store! I didn’t get to see anything!

I was so embarrassed to return to where my cohorts were all still hanging, though fewer of them now. “What happened?” I just didn’t know.

Then, one day, a little girl picked me up. “Mom! This is only five dollars; can I get it?” She asked hopefully. I puffed myself up to my proudest, imagining where she might take me: the mall, her school, a soccer game… She had even put me around her wrist – the ultimate sign of ownership – when suddenly, her mother said, “Oh no no no. No, honey, let’s not get that.” “Why?” The daughter whined, unpleasantly. “That isn’t really a scrunchy,” her mother said. “That is not something a girl your age should have.” And with that, the mother took me in her hand and placed me on a shelf I had never seen.

Oh no. The seedy part of the store, with the ceramic cups and mugs. They were all jostling each other to catch a glimpse of me. I pulled my lace a little closer in protection. ‘How could she say I’m not a scrunchy?’ I wondered. ‘Of course I’m a scrunchy!’ At long last, I was returned to my wire rod. One by one, all the others were sold before me.

Finally, another woman noticed me hanging, the last one left. At first I expected her to walk past me, as so many others had done before, when suddenly her arm darted out to add me to her small pile of purchases.

The next day, she laid me out along with items from several other bags and began to sort us into different piles. I was excited to see where she might put me, and when she held me up, I, again, struggled to look my best. I held my breath as she looked at me closely, especially the little scrap of paper that had been attached to my seam.

“Well crap!” She exclaimed. “This isn’t a scrunchy!”

‘Here we go again,’ I thought. What is wrong with people?

Laughing and groaning at the same time, which I didn’t know people could do, she went into a kitchen where an older woman was. “Mom, you all never guess. I was getting presents for the family last night and I found this scrunchy for Michelle, but I can’t give it to her.”

“Oh. She has short hair.” The older woman responded.

“Does she? Well, that’s not why.” She trust me out into view. “This is a garter belt! Not a scrunchy! She can’t wear this is her hair!”