I hated my pinkies. I hadn't always hated them, though, because I hadn't noticed their deformity until about five months ago. It was in fourth period Biology class, at Rockwell High School, on March 7, at approximately 11:25, that I first noticed them. Mr. Miyamoto, the Biology teacher, was discussing certain physical traits or features that some people possessed while others did not. For instance, some people--a considerable number of our class--couldn't roll their tongues completely over. Others could point their thumbs straight up and align them with their other fingers. Then Mr. Miyamoto asked how many of us had pinkies that curved inward. I had always assumed that everyone's pinkies turned in on their other fingers. I quickly surveyed the pinkies of the people who sat surrounding my seat--a reaction that, if done on an airline, is referred to by Shelley Berman as "POOPing" ("Perusal Of Other Passengers"-ing). A good many of my classmates had straight, beautiful pinkies. I, on the other hand, had crooked, ugly ones.

My reaction was almost immediate: I was disgusted. I moved my pinkies back and forth and they rubbed sickeningly against my ring fingers, sending slight shivers up my hand and into my brain. I felt nearly physically ill. How had this happened? I wondered.

Mr. Miyamoto was talking again. He informed us that pinkies which were as unsightly as mine were caused by over-protective or overtly warm parents who held their child's hand too often during infancy. I was, naturally, appalled. I swore to myself that, if I ever found a woman who could look past my deformity and marry me, i would never cause such an abhorrence to occur in my child or children. Then I began to wonder what course of action I might take to rectify my own deformity. If I had the monetary means, I would have opted for plastic surgery. I was sure at the time that such a form must exist--for I thought I had seen a look of horror on the faces of those equally afflicted. However, when I broached the subject with them, they denied ever having felt this way, and, furthermore, suggested that I was wrong in feeling like this about what I should accept as a slight character-building flaw. This attitude, which was prevalent among those whom I spoke to, vexed me extremely. After the third such encounter, I decided it would be wise not to discuss my problem with anyone anymore, though I would have felt a million times more at ease had I a comrade who shared in my loathing of what was an extreme deformity. I could not stand listening to the way the fellow-afflicted spoke with such resignation. They had given up! Still, it mattered not to me. I knew my aversion was justified--I needed no external assurance to assert this fact--so, support or no, I knew what must be done. I hesitated only over the means I wished to employ to attain my goal. How could I possibly straighten my oblique pinkies? This question I pondered for some time. How? How? How? I spent two days shy of a month considering my options--or lack thereof.

And then the answer came to me, or I to it. I came upon it one warm, early April day--I believe it was the fifth--while my sister and I were helping my brother in his garden. Actually, we were eating popsicles and watching him work in his garden. He was fixing a baby sunflower: It was still very small, and, for some reason, its stem was bent. He took his popsicle stick and broke it in two. With those broken halves, he made a splint for the sunflower's stem, saying this would ensure that the sunflower would grow straight.

At that moment, the pinkie on my right hand twitched. Another shiver ran up to my brain, but this one carried with it electric current that turned the little lightbulb on in my brain. I knew immediately what I would do. Before I knew I had done anything, my stick was broken in half. I grabbed my sister's stick and did the same to it. They made nice splints for my pinkies.

For the next two months, I heard nothing from my so-called friends and stupid classmates besides attempts to persuade me to give up this endeavor. They all thought I was going too far--they all thought I was going overboard--they all thought I was going insane! What IDIOTS! Finally, I decided to check my pinkies. Much to my dismay, they were still as crooked as ever. I became disappointed, disenchanted, and utterly destroyed. Depression hung like a black umbrella above my head that kept the sun out but the rain in. Every day was a funeral. I was burying my hopes.

But I knew I couldn't give up. My pinkies kept rubbing and rubbing and rubbing and RUBBING against my ring fingers until I couldn't stand it anymore! I had to do something soon. I decided that, regardless of the price, plastic surgery was the solution. I would have to save, beg, borrow, and steal the money wherever and however I could. But first I would need an estimate. So I grabbed the phonebook, flipped to the Yellow Pages, and started searching for plastic surgeons. They were under the heading "Physicians and Surgeons."

Finally, I could put the umbrella away. My hopes were resurrected like Lazarus still in their funeral shrouds. I was happy and hopeful once again.

But not for long. I called office after office, talked to secretary after secretary, all to no avail. No one could or would give me any help. By the third call I placed, and the third rejection I recieved, I was screaming. I couldn't help it. Frustration had built up in me until it boiled over. I slammed the telephone down. and then I skulked into the kitchen to make some tea to, hopefully, settle my nerves.

My mother said hello to me when I went in there. She was using our huge butcher knife to chop vegetables. Leave it to her to find something to use that thing for. We had that knife for a long time but we rarely used it. After all, it was just too big for cutting most things. But there she was, looking rediculous, trying to chop an onion with it. I made myself tea.

And had an idea.

Now, it is true many of my friends have called me a madman for the undertaking I am about to relate. However, and I wish to stress this point, I had, as I've said, no other alternative. I tried all of the means which were available to me and met with nothing but dismal failure. There was no solution save this last, extreme one. And I should add here that I am much happier now than I was during those unendurable three months--and it is this point which is essential to the moral of this story. Some will think it was nothing but pure vanity which drove me to this final solution. Nothing could be further from the truth than this assumption. My pinkies felt strange and alien to me. The way my pinkies rubbed against my ring fingers made me almost physically ill at times. I would be sitting in class trying to decipher an algebra equation or working on some test or other and the pinkie on my right hand would move (because I was writing), causing a jolt to shoot through me once again. My stomach would turn as it is doing now just to recall the incidences, and I would not be able to finish my classwork. As I've said, I hadn't noticed them before, but now that I had, I couldn't leave them as they were. I had to do something and--I cannot underscore this enough--I had no other option.

But I did not immediately embark on the undertaking at hand. Instead, I had time to think things over. I questioned whether or not my affliction warranted such an extreme measure. The answer I kept coming back to was yes, of course it does. I tried desperately to find another way to straighten my pinkies, but nothing would come of it. And, I want to make this clear, I had plenty of time to consider such things. You see, I was waiting for the proper opportunity to arise before I could set about making my plans a reality. Such an opportunity did not arise for quite some time--time enough for me to have second, as well as third and fourth, doubts about the necessity of my planned operation. But every time I started to wonder if I had maybe made too hasty a judgement, one pinkie or both would rub against me and any and all doubts would vanish. I knew it would only be a matter of time before the circumstances would permit me to carry through my plan.

Then, finally, the circumstances did.

It was a clear, beautiful evening. Night fell upon the city like a warm blanket of stars. I think my parents realized the beauty of the night and decided to take full advantage of it. They decided to have a romantic evening out: maybe dinner, maybe dancing, and I didn't want to know what else. When they left I was alone. (My sister was staying at a friend's house). Now was my chance. I went into the kitchen in search of the large cutting knife I had seen my mother use. It was waiting where I expected it to be--in the knife drawer. I pulled it out. Its blade, undulled from years of near-neglect, gleamed like diamonds reflecting rays of light, like stars twinkling overhead, like eyes lit up in a smile. I think--yes, I'm sure--I was smiling too. I pulled out the cutting board and laid my left-hand pinkie on it. Footsteps outside made me jump. Fortunately, it wasn't my parents returning home i search of some article they had forgotten to take with them. I returned to the task at hand. When my nerves were steady again, I placed my pinkie back down. I wished I had someone to do this for me because I didn't want to watch. However, I knew I must. I raised the butcher knife and placed my pinkie underneath it. Then I brought the blade down hard against my stiff finger. Needless to say, this procedure was unbelievably painful. Thankfully, I do not recall most of the subsequent events nor the pain itself except to say that it was almost unbearable. But I did not faint. I bandaged up that finger and repeated the process on my other pinkie. As I am right-handed, faint-hearted, and neurotically nervous (particularly in times of excessive stress), imitating the operation was almost impossible. But I did. The cut was a lot more jagged then the first, but I did it. I almost bled to death that night, and my parents were very upset because I ruined their evening, but at least my pinkies were no longer a problem.

The moral of this story is simply this: If you don't like something aobut your appearance, it can always be changed. Don't let your friends talk you out of it--the results can be worthwhile.