Many people say that what doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger and that’s why Rita stormed out of her house, running towards the nearest hairdresser. Ginger, freckles, hair almost on her knees, she simply decided by herself that being the carrier of the family’s tradition was too much for her 14 year old brain, and that she would rather go fishing for purple crabs in the sewer than spend hours every day grooming her hair.
What she was unaware of was that her family’s tradition wasn’t her family’s, but the entire city’s tradition, and when she entered the hairdresser’s everyone stood up as if they had just sat on a cactus.
— Rita, what are you doing here?
— I’m looking for genuine maracas! What do you think? I want a haircut.
Being polite wasn’t her forte. And suddenly everyone wished they had those maracas.
— But Rita, without your father’s consent…
— Tell that ugly baldy fella…
— He’s coming through the door.
Her father wished he hadn’t gone after her, but what could he do? It was stronger than him.
In two seconds, Rita had grabbed the most dangerous scissors around and was not waving it to the others, while holding ol’ Mrs. Frank with an armlock, her hostage. Poor Mrs. Frank, she was just sitting there.
— Rita! Drop that and we can talk!
With a shriek, Rita cut not only her hair, but Mrs. Frank’s as well, only to release her and run to the woods like a rabid lion.