I'm outside, heading back to the classrooms from break time, 2 or 3 friends are by my side walking with me. We form part of a large mass of children taking the same route, all having been called in from the tennis courts and playground by the sound of a teacher's whistle. I have my hair down, as I prefer it.

I feel nice, pretty, confident. 

I feel older than my age. 

Then I see her standing ahead of us, to the left, staring down the line of energetic kids as it coursed past her: Mrs Clifford. She always tells me to put my hair up because "it's the school rules", and because she "said so".  But I don't understand this rule, and I don't understand her authority.  

As predicted, she shouts my name, calling for me to tie up my hair. "Yes miss", I say, as I wrap my hands around my hair and bring it up to the back of my head, so as to look like I had begun the process. I was still walking, away from her now, soon out of her sight. 

I pulled my hands back down to my sides and let my hair free again. I giggled as I felt it settle onto the tops of my shoulders, pleased with my successful deception. My friends giggled too, in seemingly a mix of both disbelief and admiration.