Sensibility And when she was picked, she had long hair. Long,flowing hair, dark as the night sky, which never seemed to be blue, and dark as the colors ofthe witches cloaks, which were always pulled so tightly around themselves, like how tight the bunson top of their heads were. We had a visit from the most important witches recently, they werehere to choose. I had always been a promising child. “Lots of potential, just needs to speak up more.” And then she came. I had always suspected her of beinga witch’s child, because of her raven black hair and black eyes, and pointy nose, and bigears, and small feet, and sensible clothing. She didn’t wear a cloak, or have a bun, but she wasa witch’s child, I knew it. And her name was a witch’s name:Loretta.Loretta had short hair. Itwas very short, ending in abrupt jagged lines halfway up her face. It was what the witches alwayshated, not sensible enough, not strict enough, not… witchy enough. Loretta didn’t cut herhair after that. Not after those strict words: “Your hair looks likea tangled nest of ugliness. No one likes that. I don’t like that. You, eventually, will not like that.” So it was growing, longer, and longer, until it wasin a tight bun. And finally… it was time to choose. Who would become leader? Who would becomethe head, the person with the most… potential? It was Loretta. The witch’s child. Theultimate choice. And yet, I could not help noticing that there was sadness in her eyes. No moreof the fierce cunning that she had had before. Her eyes had used to say, “Come at me, and I willpierce you with my jagged hair.” Not anymore. And as she was picked I saw her closely.Now her eyes said nothing. She was the head, and yet… her sensibility had gotten away fromher. It was running somewhere far, until Loretta would call for it.