by Hannah Wolf

The horrible tragedy of Christmas Eve ‘99 all started with a staple gun.

A huge, fancy, shiny, silver staple gun.

I was in a classroom at my church, and my mom was helping me change into my “angel” costume that I was to shortly wear in the long awaited Christmas Program.

It’s ironic I was dressed as an angel, because everything that happened to me that night was straight out of hell. I probably should have had devil horns on rather than a halo.

As my mom searched for the right size angel wings for me to wear, I spotted the staple gun. I was immediately drawn to this contraption. Let me tell you, this was no kindergarten-teacher’s-kid-friendly-stapler. This was the biggest, prettiest, most dangerous staple gun I had ever seen. Of course, as a five year old, I ignored that last part.

I was so intrigued by this staple gun that I was determined to figure out how it worked. I started to feel really bad that I was about to waste a staple just to see this machine work some magic.

So I put my two thumbs under the end, thinking I could block a staple from shooting out.

Wrong.

I pushed down, and the staple broke the skin and penetrated several millimeters into my thumb.

“MOM I JUST STAPLED MY THUMBS TOGETHER!!!!!!” I cried.

It’d be an understatement to say she freaked out.

Blood started dripping from my hand, ruining the completely white angel costume I had on. My mom ran me to the nearest bathroom, found some band aids, and got me a new white dress. She was convinced I wasn’t going to miss that Christmas program for anything, even if it meant some blood and tears.

So I paraded around the church with ten fellow crying kindergarten angels. All they wanted was their parents or a blanket. I just stappled my fingers together for crying out loud!

Once the 10 minute program was over (thank God) I went to sit with my parents in the second pew from the front for the rest of the Christmas Eve service. And it all went downhill from there.

Everyone was given a small wax candle at the start of church. As we began to sing “Jesus is the Light of the World,” an adult would come light the candle of the person sitting at the end of the pew, and from there, everyone would pass on the flame from one person to the next.

Why my mom let me hold her candle, I’m not sure. Not only did I have bloody thumbs at that point, but I also had an insane amount of hairspray in my hair.

And let me just say: hairspray and a candle-light service don’t mix.

I turned my head to look at my brother holding a candle. After that, something started to smell. And then my neck started to get really hot.

My hair had gotten to close to my own candle and, with the help of the hairspray, went up in flames. My mom freaked out, even worse this time.

“OH MY GOD HANNAH YOUR HAIR IS ON FIRE!!!!!!” she yelled.

After that, everything was a blur. My mom picked me up and ran me the whole 200 feet up the aisle to the back of the church, where she took me outside to extinguish the fire. I’d like to say she stuck my head in the snow, but that part may or may not have happened.

Christmas Eve of ‘99 definitely goes down as the worst one of my life, way over the year my dog died or I found out Santa wasn’t real. To this day, I dread Christmas Eve masses. I refuse to hold the candle during that song. I have an abnormal fear of staples now. And I definitely never participated in the Christmas program again.