At the age of twelve, I questioned my grandfather about the unfairness of the will he had drafted.
I refused to do the things that nice, domesticated girls were supposed to do, and spent all my time in my grandfather’s library.
I cut my hair short, a day before I met my future in-laws, as they were conservative people, and loved quiet girls with a fair skin and long hair.
I see the rage in my boss’s eyes, and know that it is time to quit.
The iconoclast in me lives on, defiantly.
I know I have always been hated for my rebel spirit, but never understood why.