You stopped wearing your red bolo tie because she said it looked lame, and you wanted to be cool.
“13 year olds don’t wear red bolo ties,” she tells you, crossing the space of your small tent to fix your collar, move the hair from off your neck. “13 year olds don’t know what red bolo ties _are.”_
“But I do,” you say. “Doesn’t that make me an exception? Because I do?”
She considers that for a long time, twirling a piece of your baby soft blonde hair around on her finger.
“Maybe,” she says. “Maybe…” but still, her tone is doubtful.
When she leaves, you look at yourself in the mirror. It only takes you a second to decide that the bolo tie must go.
When you leave for your next appearance, you dump it in the trash.
You stopped doing a lot of things because she didn’t like it.