F.I. Essay Contest Submission:
“My hair has always been my defining characteristic. I entered the world with peach fuzz and didn’t grow a full head of hair until I was about three. By then all I had was white feathers, which was appropriate considering my nickname was “Bird Girl” because I would flit around singing to myself.
When I was a little girl, I looked up to my Aunt, a twice-divorced New York City woman who gave into the 90’s fads, as a source of what a beautiful woman should look and behave like. She wore long pink nails and lots of make-up, including purple eye shadow and hot pink cheeks, very girly. I would always steal kisses from her, hoping that her lipstick would rub off on me. Make-up was forbidden in our house. My mother was naturally beautiful, but humble, and only wore lipstick to church or weddings. My Mom had a short black hair in a pixie cut, but my Aunt Debbie had long curly brown hair that she would let me play with. My father wanted me and my sisters to grow up smart, strong, independent and productive, not ditsy and vain. I guess I was kind of a rebel, because looks were all that really mattered to me at the time.
I had a bowl-cut until my sixth birthday. This time-period led to my sense of fashion, making up for what I lacked in hair, even if that meant bright colors, big bows, sequins and gemstones on everything. Since my hair wouldn’t grow, I would wrap bath towels around my head and pretend that I had thick long hair down my back, like a Disney princess. I would only wear pink and purple, and would prance around in fairy costumes on a regular basis, even at school. Even when my sister and I played with the neighbor boys, she would be in the mud with the Tonka trucks, and I would be standing back, watching them, with a baby doll on my hip. I also had an extensive collection of Barbie dolls, all with long, straight, blonde hair: the epitome of beauty, in my young eyes, and something I dreamt of having one day.
When I was about five years old, my family drove cross-country stopping in 40 states in the summer of ’95, one of many memorable family vacations. We camped in tents, and spent our days hiking and visiting attractions like Mount Rushmore and Yellowstone National Park. In the evenings, when the sun was setting and it was much cooler, my big sister Madeleine, who was about 7 at the time, and I would ride our bikes around the campsite, while my parents would prepare dinner, and my little sister Millie would stay with them because she was just a toddler. I only have a few memories of the trip that really stick out to me, because I was so young, but this particular one stood out to me because of the impact it had on the way I viewed myself. One evening, at a site in Montana or Wyoming or something like that, while Madeleine and I rode up and down the hilly rodes, canopied by tall trees, we passed by a bunch of kids, boys and girls who couldn’t have been older than 12, on my cotton candy-colored bike, and one of them hollered “Hey, little boy!” to me, laughing to themselves like a bunch of punks.
“What?” I thought to myself.
I was NOT a boy. I was a fairy princess. I sang along with Whitney Houston in The Bodyguard. I wore Tinkerbell costumes and sprinkled fairy dust on my cats. I idolized Jasmine and Belle and Thumbelina, and believed that beauty and a good voice was the way to a man’s heart- both of which I tried to perfect. I was disgusted by the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and Power Rangers. I had tea parties and played house, not Cowboys versus Indians. I wore dresses and shiny gold shoes, which my dad would call “whore-house shoes,” but at that age I just thought that it meant they were fabulous – which they were. My parents would laugh at me, but I took my looks seriously.
I was not a boy. I was even riding a pink and blue bike, with scrunchies around my wrist – that’s one queer little boy. I went back to the campsite and told my parents. Yes I had a bowl-cut, the signature boy haircut of the ‘90’s, but I had big blue eyes with long dark eyelashes and girly features. I was wearing a t-shirt and soccer shorts because that’s what one wears when they’re camping and spending the day hiking mountains. Maybe I did look like a boy from that distance, or maybe they were just being cruel. I didn’t know, but I felt the need to prove them wrong.
The next day my father took me out to a local indoor flea market, a massive shed with cold cement floors and harsh overhead lighting. It had all sorts of used goods, mostly just junk that should’ve been trashed, but amongst all of the crap something really special caught my eye. In a white basket, full of doodads and chotchkes, I spotted what I thought was the most feminine thing in the world – a big tacky black baseball cap COVERED in huge, colorful, gemstones. It was something a little old woman might wear while playing bingo or riding her electric wheelchair through the streets of Tallahassee. My dad thought it was great and bought it for me, and I put in as soon as we got out to the parking lot.
Later that night I made the same route, passing by those kids’ campsites, strutting my new bedazzled hat with my head held high. I felt like the prettiest little girl in the world, they weren’t there, but if they were they probably would’ve thought I was crazy – crazy, but definitely not a boy.
A few years ago I finally grew my straight blonde hair down my back, it was so pretty and healthy, and dye-free, just like the Barbie dolls I admired when I was a little girl, but I cut it all off for Locks of Love so someone else could enjoy it more. When I cut it off, though I felt good for helping another person, I didn’t feel as feminine with my chin-length cut. My mother told me never to dye it, because it was naturally beautiful, but I felt it needed some sort of magic to help my self esteem. I wouldn’t listen. My friend Rose and I went to Rite Aid, where I bought a cheap box of red hair-dye. It turned pink. Since then I’ve had many different hair-colors, based on mood-swings mainly, and dyed my hair ten different shades from black to platinum, even earning the nickname “Vitamin C” after the singer with signature yellow hair. I finally got it to grow long again last summer, but it was so damaged and unfortunate, that this last September I cut it all off again.
I’ve always defined myself with clothing, make-up and my hair. I feel like now I’m realizing that I can be feminine without wearing mascara or jewelry or high heels. I’m still a fairy princess, and I still sing and dance by myself, and still have fun getting dressed up and pretty, but I care less about what people think. Now that I’m grown-up I have my own definition of beauty.”
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