If I hadn't believed that I'd been made ugly, I could have laughed it off. Instead I spent the next years trying to "pass." I combed my hair fanatically, attempting to "train" it straight. I used Sun-In and turned it orangey-green. Finally in seventh grade, I called it quits and wore a kerchief every day.
In high school it was long again, safely back in braids. Then I discovered the curling iron and ironed my way into confidence and cliques. But my secret ugly monster lay underneath. That was confirmed by my brother, who saw me in my natural state each morning. "Medusa-Tarantula-Legs!" he'd shout. It was all I could do to keep Medusa down.
It wasn't until I was around 17 that I began to let my hair be real. Losing interest in the scene, and tired of the smallness that I'd been trying to fit inside, I turned toward the outside world and breathed a sigh of relief. Both I and my hair were bigger than those walls! Of course, as it happens in all good fables, once I stopped seeking approval, I got more than I had sought. Now good day or bad, my identity's no longer rooted in my hair--even though my Roots are in my roots!
