Do the viola lessons I took for 2 months in 4th grade (1966, I was ten) count?
Was actually taking 'em in my grade school, because my buddy and I were enamored of Tijuana Brass, but he got to take the cornet 'cause he had a better lip for it.
Then the music teacher looks at me and says my hands are big enough to handle a viola.
Little did I know that he just needed another string to fill out his string section.
To add insult to injury, one day I had to take a test in one class which overlapped with the music class, which made me late (normally the homeroom teacher let me out early for the music class, no penalty).
I figured "No big deal, not my fault, he'll understand." (I even finished the test early)
But no.
Like the stereotypical martinet of a music teacher he upbraided me and made me go back to the other class:
"No soup for you!!!"
Upon hearing of this my mother went to the school and upbraided him, and then complained to the district board to boot.
No more music lessons at Earl Warren Elementary School.
Fortunately my fragile young psyche was naïve enough to be blissfully unaware of the emotional damage inflicted upon it, and I caught a healthy dose of guitar lust in about 7th grade.
As my folks were deathly afraid of the pitfalls associated with playing an electric guitar, they let me get started on a classical guitar, into the soundhole of which I promptly taped the speaker from an electronics experimenter's kit, and fed the wires into the input jack of a Webcor tape recorder Grampa'd handed down to me.
Instant distortion, suitable for trying to figure out how to play like Jorma Kaukonen on "Spare Chaynge" on After Bathing At Baxter's.
Which was also my first rock music book.