The first time I can remember thinking of a part of myself as inferior was in kindergarten, when I started noticing that the majority of the other little girls in my class had long hair that swayed with their every movement and didn’t require the clips and baubles that my mother put in mine. When they pushed a hand through their hair, it would fall gracefully back into position, silky-smooth and long. When I would try this in front of my mirror at home, my hair would remain where my fingers had relocated it, stubbornly defying gravity. I looked like a cartoon character, but it didn’t make me laugh. I frowned, and wished, not for the first time, that my hair was different. I didn’t like it anymore.
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