On the first day of spring 1996, I first saw the world.

When I plopped out, the whole room filled with my grandpas and grandmas, father, and mom’s best friend went silent. “She must have had an affair,” they all thought, but someone muttered under their breath.

That baby has a full head of thick, black curls and there is no way my mom’s gold, fine hair could of done this alone. My Dad’s hair is brown and thin as paper. My sister had a golden mane of curls, like the curly fries that are cooked just right and softly uncoil.

I was tan; maybe she had a fling with the gardener or a pool boy? The possibilities were endless. But, they thought this only for a moment, because when I opened my green curious eyes, it was as if my Dad was looking back at everyone.

That was relief.

The dark curls turned lighter and dropped as I spent hours, barefoot, playing in the warmth of California’s sunshine.

According to two boys in my kindergarten class, I looked like the infamous immortal “Medusa” and if they looked me in the eyes they would turn to stone. I wished I could turn them into the stones as cold as their heart; I wished I didn’t have to learn boys were mean to nice girls and it would only get worse.

Middle school was the time of the side bangs, sliced enough to cover half of my preteen eye, heavily coated with the cheapest eyeliner from Rite Aid. My life became layered with responsibilities and new people, as did my hair, which meant I was always trying to straighten things out, avoiding being engulfed by a chaotic mess of frizz.

High school came and I continued to let my hair grow along with me. The curls were unanimous with the growth of my Daddy Long Leg-like legs, growing stronger with soccer and sunshine. Cutting even a little snippet was a huge step, as was cutting off the friends who had changed from the people I had known in middle school.

College came along with split hearts and split ends. It was time to chop off all of the memories, to start new. My hair was now up to my collarbone, room for growth. Gone was the mermaid hair, dried out at the ends from saltwater and straightening irons, gone was the evil goddess who could turn you to stone.

I felt like a new person; moving to a big city, not sure what was to come to both my hair and me.

I hear the weather is crummy in Chicago. Maybe my hair will turn back into a little, bundle of curls, like the time I was born, born again.