In the third grade my teacher told us to stand up if we were blonde. I stood up, looking around at all the other students. I was so proud of my hair color because there were few kids in my class who had it and I resembled my mom. I stood loud and proud, parading my golden locks for the class. The other girls were brunette, whispering how it’s better to have darker hair. Back then I would have disagreed, but now I’m not so sure.
When I was fourteen two boys in my eighth grade class used to pick on me. Both my mom and my teacher said it was because they liked me, which I believed for a while. Over time the teasing turned over to my hair color, where they’d say “you’re a dumb blonde” or if I got a question wrong, “it’s because she’s blonde.” I grew to hate my hair color and wondered if I really was stupid. I was made fun of everyday and refused to answer questions out of fear of being wrong. I eventually stayed after school with my teacher, telling him what was going on. I expressed my frustration and kept trying to convince him I wasn’t what they said I was. I look back now and wonder, was I trying to convince him or myself?
The stereotype followed me into high school, where I struggled with math and science. Every class I’d get a dumb blonde joke, following with some laughs and then continue on with the period. Some of you might be thinking, it’s not that big of a deal, it’s a joke. Okay, it is a joke. I was made fun of everyday for a trait of mine I can’t help. Everyday I would listen to some ignorant kid tell me how blondes will fall for anything and I’m just another one. Even though I understood assignments, my teachers would still dumb down questions for me. I would get surprising, “wow you’re actually really smart,” as if that wouldn’t sting. So yes, it is just a joke. It’s just not funny.
My senior year I applied to UNH and someone told me I wouldn’t get in. “Don’t smart kids go there?” Yes, someone actually said that. As if my AP classes, my college credit, my volunteering and my honors classes weren’t enough proof that I was, in fact, smart. So I dyed my hair brown. For five months I was a brunette and people treated me differently. My teachers no longer spoke at a slower pace and kids stopped with the blonde jokes. For five months I could participate in class just like everyone else and not listen to any side remarks about my hair color. Easily the best five months of my short eighteen years. I had straight A’s, great teacher recommendations and a sense of pride about my school work. To top it all off, I got into UNH where I currently attend.
A question began lingering in my mind, should I dye it back or keep my brown hair? I had about a month left of school and decided to just finish out the year as a brunette. As my graduation date got closer, the more I began picturing myself in my cap and gown. I thought about all the years of work that had led up to that and receiving my acceptance letter to UNH. I thought about all the teachers, the students and random encounters I had in the past. I ended up walking across the stage in my purple cap and gown with blonde, curly hair. I took my diploma and looked out at my mom smiling ear to ear, knowing I’d have a fresh start and never see these people again. It was liberating, to say the least.
My intelligence does not depend on my hair color. Who I am as a person does not depend on what color hair I have. Brown, red, purple…a color does not determine whether I’m smart or not. It is important to remember that we cannot control what we are born with, we have to love ourselves and each other.
