Answer # 1:

Early Christmas morning 2006 found me bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, looking anxiously forward to opening all of the colorfully wrapped gifts waiting for me under the tree . . .

Well, that's a lie. I believe it was somewhere between nine and ten in the morning. My siblings had been up for three+ hours already, while I was refusing to get out of bed, begging for more than the two hours of sleep I had gotten due to this being my first Christmas Eve spent helping "Santa" wrap presents. Eventually, hair disheveled, makeup smeared, clothes improperly fashioned around my limbs and torso, I made my way down the hallway and to the family room. My disposition brightened greatly upon entering the decorated room and I cheerfully took a seat at one end of the couch, fully looking forward now to the unwrapping of our gifts. Anyway, getting on in my story . . . as I was sitting there, I decided to rest my head on the palm of my hand and being tired from the night before, I decided to also rest my eyes.

A few minutes later, I realize that the rancid smoke smell (not at all enjoyable like the fine smoke of a Cuban) was in fact me.

On fire.

Literally.

OK, so, it was only my hair, but still. A girl's hair means a lot to her, and mine was on fire! Well, not on fire exactly, but it was smoking, and I did lose a good chunk of it from that damn candle. Worst part was still finding bits of burned hair even days after the incident. I shudder just thinking about it. It was terrifying, traumatic, terrible.