“Ma, come look! I made myself pretty!” Elizabeth called out from her bathroom as she stood on top of her bright pink step stool to see herself in the mirror. She still had her crafting scissors in her hand, snipping off another tuft of her thick, red hair that stuck out. Father had said her hair was more of an unruly bother than a blessing. Her mother disagreed vehemently with the notion, but Elizabeth thought ‘daddy knew best’.

Once her mother opened the door to see the horror that Elizabeth had created. Her face was jubilant — happy as can be, as if she’d just opened a Christmas present — but her hair was tattered. Messy, chopped layers formed an almost mangled pixie cut.

“How do I look?” She rocked back and forth on her heels, teetering dangerously close to the edge of the step stool. She was grinning so wide the gap that her fallen tooth had caused was visible.