yours truly, anna

From the moment I entered this world, I was adorned with a crown of cloud-like white hair that confused my family, especially my mother, whose own hair was a rich shade of brown. As I transitioned from infancy to toddlerhood, my unique mane evolved, acquiring a faint yellow hue and spiraling into tight curls that seemed to have a mind of their own. In the snippets of my early years captured in photographs, I'm often depicted as a carefree child, adorned in baggy clothes, with my rebellious curls dancing wildly in the wind, sometimes obscuring my view of the world around me.

As my elementary school years started, my blonde curls remained, a distinctive feature among my new classmates. Not yet having a mind of my own, I let my mother deal with my hair every day. Her not having ever dealt with curly hair, she would brush it out and spray it down or just get it out of my face the best she could. But amidst the drama of my hair, my attention was elsewhere, I was distracted by the wonders of school life—the magic of watching butterflies emerge from their cocoons we raised, the anticipation of friends at recess.

With each passing year, however, my growing independence sparked a curiosity about my own identity, including the upkeep of my unique hair. Why was I the solitary owner of these unruly curls, while my family members had wavy dark Italian features?  I started to realize that brushing it only made it worse and knotted. My hair never stopped being knotted.

As puberty kicked in, I became more conscious of my hair as a part of me rather than how it looked on my head. I didn’t know how to deal with the wild mess I was born with. It became a burden and a hassle to figure out. Frustrated and uncertain, I turned to the allure of straightening, hoping to blend seamlessly into the crowd. It turned into a ritual of meticulously straightening my hair to make myself feel better. I always felt prettier with it straight, looking like the majority of the kids in my school. I felt as if my hair was the one barrier keeping me from fitting in. 

The outcome of my teenage years was an outcome of self-love. I learned hiding my features under the control of hot tools was not a way to live my life. I had a struggle with my inner self, fighting her, telling her it’s okay to have your natural hair show. 

With my newfound personal acceptance of my hair came a lot of learning. People started touching my hair without my permission. They became fascinated with reaching their hands out to pull my curls. Pulling each individual curl down with their slimy fingers and watching them coil back up. I quickly became frustrated and had to learn to set new boundaries with people. 

My hair allowed me to learn more about myself and who I really was. 

Yours Truly,

Anna