The thought of Norm and Tracy's divorce stunned me. Although I disagreed with the idea of procuring a divorce as a method of paying lesser taxes, I hoped for its validity. I had no grievance against Tracy or Norm, for personally, they brought only joy into my life, and if, through the divorce, I could expect to lose the companionship of one or both, I would feel a great sense of loss. I tried to avoid the negative images which clouded my eyes, and with naive and hopeful rationalization, banished divorce from my thoughts through the fact that I had never witnessed arguments or any other signs of marital instability in their presence. Of course I saw less of Norm and Tracy with the beginning of ninth grade. Time was no longer a surplus commodity, for the homework was more difficult and life seemed to demand more of my energy. Growing up was hard; I could not hide at home in a bay of isolation, and pray that the world would pass by without casting its shadow on my life. I could not cower among shadows; I had to seek the sun... even though it was often obscured by clouds. It wasn't always easy to seek the sun, especially in the middle of winter, and after a week of the flu... and a week of silence following the divorce. Nevertheless, I prepared myself emotionally for my return to school. My recuperation was nearly complete. Jan 19, 1977... Will go to school tomorrow. Hopefully without my wig. I washed my hair and styled it, and it looks good. It was true. Everything did always happen at once. Actually my timing could not have been better, since a new semester had begun and a new array of faces would meet my eyes in the various classes upon my entry; furthermore, it was a blessing that I had caught a nasty virus, for my reappearance would be buffered by time and the impairment of facial recollection which accompanies one's absence. I studied myself relentlessly in the mirror. My hair was pixie-short, yet its feathered, naturally layered style would be a less disagreeable look for one my age. A gray and lifeless cast, though dominated by brown, was still visible in the persistent outcrop, attesting to the cruelties it had known before it was allowed to pursue life. The next morning I once again surveyed my reflection. It would have been so easy to allow cowardice to overpower my intention; the wig, poised on its styrofoam head, could either be part of the present or part of the past. I looked at myself in the mirror and ran a comb through my hair; it wasn't much, but it was mine. I lowered the comb and placed it on top of the vanity. Taking a deep breath to ease my churning stomach, I turned from my reflection and permitted the wig to become a remnant of history.