CHIGNON BY CHI CHUN

If you ever wanted to get revenge on people who have wronged you, then you may be able to relate to Mr. Chiu, the main character in the short story “Saboteur” by Ha Jin. Mr. Chiu’s revenge is ironic as the conflicts he finds himself in throughout the story.

The novel starts as Janie retells her past events to her best friend Pheoby. As a child, Janie grew up happily with only her Grandmother, who worked for and lived with the Washburns, a white family. Young Jamie’s hair is emphasized as long, dark and straight. She recalls her luscious hair and tells Pheoby “I had a hair ribbon on mah head fuh me tuh wear” (9). Her long, freely moving hair with ribbons symbolizes Jamie as a young girl: she was a joyful child with a vibrant but easygoing personality. She is very excited to experience the world and yearning to find love. Her eagerness to experience love is shown as the young teen “searched as much of the world as she could… and leaned over to gaze up and down the road” (11). However, as her grandmother grows old and worries about Janie’s future, She

The writer starts off the essay in the kitchen of his own house with his mother straightening her friends’ hair with what they call a “hot comb” (323). The writer starts in the kitchen to introduce another meaning for

I could feel the breeze skim through my hair as my loose shirt caught the brisk air behind me. This was my sanctuary, the feeling was bliss. I made my way home, bracing myself for the approaching argument I was about to have with my mother. That feeling of pleasure left my body as quickly as it arrived. I stepped into the front door, and closed it behind me as quietly as I could, maybe she wouldn't notice I was late home. But before I could even take the first few steps inside, I heard mum coming from the kitchen,

The book Lucky Child by Loung Ung tells the story about Loung who was fortunate to escape the terrifying invasion of the Khmer Rouge and escape to america.The pressure of dealing with assimilation and trying to fit in leaves Loung lost in the journey of trying to find out who she really is.

The inn keeper's parlor was the best in town, they told her. His wife was wearing a heavy dress, adorned with lace and a massive broach that she raised a plump hand to touch, as if to be certain it was still there. They spoke of the massive rug, bought from Paris, and the finely crafted furniture they all sat upon. The preacher listened quietly, smiling as though their vanity wasn't a sin, while Mrs. Hartford eyed the dress with longing. Della thought that the dress was tasteless. The lace was poorly made, and the line of the bodice wasn't flattering. The fabric was an odd shade between blue and green, and the woman inside it was far less appealing. She didn't bother to mention that her own parlor had been filled with crystal, and priceless art her father had collected around the world. She didn't mention that her toys had cost more than Mrs. Johnson's gowns, or that she was mispronouncing the tea they'd been served. Not to be kind, not to be deceptive, but because did not matter anymore. Nothing mattered anymore. She'd given up that life to marry Ben, given up her family, given up her home and her gowns and her education.

My mama has been working on the renaissance clothes all week, and now we are in the car. Driving to the Renaissance Festival. My sister was wearing an auburn red dress with pretty patterns and frills all over her dress. My mama was wearing a royal green dress with necklaces and lace that covered her. Papa was wearing a simple lords siamese, trousers, vest, cloak, and hat. While I wore a royal blue dress matched with a beautiful necklace, and my hair done on intricate braids as ribbons were also going through my hair.

She tightened her stomach and threw out her chest. She turned and looked over her shoulder at her back. After a while she began to dress, slowly. She put on her newest underclothing and her nicest stockings and the dress, which was the symbol of her prettiness. She worked carefully on her hair, penciled her eyebrows and rouged her lips.”

“Oh goodness, this is not how a lady ought to look. Let’s fix this up,” she muttered. But it was pointless. Her tears only washed away her efforts. Instead, she took upon brushing her hair. Daisy sat there humming to herself until she saw glaring lights

One of my most vivid memories as a child was when I was six, a seemingly world away now. My mother had held me over her knee, letting me straddle it, as she braided my hair in a straight, straw rope down my back. Her fingers were gentle, yet quick, and always knew how to avoid tugging my knots in order to spare me more bedevilment. I remember that she had always removed it just as she finished, for fear of my father walking in on us. ‘It will be our little secret,’ she would say to me, before hiding my hair back under a cloth bonnet, and returned to her stitching. It wasn’t until many summers later that I learned why I was to keep the secret hair braiding quiet, and why she never did it while my father was home. In the eyes of the church, a promiscuous or extravagant hair style was a hint of being a witch (Stuart A. Kallen).

“Mom please, stop!” I looked into her glaring big, green eyes. When we went grocery shopping a week ago, someone had said that we look alike. I could never really see the resemblance. Feature-wise, she looked disgusting. Her hair was put up, but it wasn’t like most people’s, where it was brushed and put up. No, it was thrown up, with an uneven array of bumps and knots. I couldn’t even stand to look at her for very long.

Key points (1) They have a strong connection (2) He was in a car accident R3 They need a break from their home town.

As I approach the turn to my Grandmother's house, my stomach turns in the anticipation of the perfectly sweet peanut butter cookie smell that awaits. As my mother turn up the long narrow gravel road and parked the car in front of her house. I stepped outside and a chilly little breeze bites at my cheeks. I take a deep breath and the sweet smell of burning cedar enters my nose. I

The women take a good look at the quilt, and notice how one of the sections is very sloppy and ?looks as if she doesn't know what she was about.? This section is very different from all of the other sections, and the women infer that Mrs. Wright was nervous when she was sewing that piece. They begin to wonder what would make Mrs. Wright so uneasy that she would start sewing carelessly.

My aunt stuck her head into the bedroom and whispered to me, “Are you ready?” In the mirror I glanced at my dress a final time and fixed my hair again. “Ready” I said quietly, not believing it fully myself.