Olivia Drivas

Third Place: Nonfiction

“Olive Tree Curls” 
by Olivia Drivas
12th grade, Morristown High School

—

My hair has been a lot of things. At times it looked like coarse raccoon fur, each and every strand of which stood where it wanted to. Other times it brought to mind the branches of an olive tree, each curl bent into an imperfect silhouette, looping back on itself in uneven circles. It’s never been easy. It’s been crazy and out of order and impossible to ignore; it has been a constant presence that shaped more than my appearance. I didn’t always have a kind relationship with it.

When I was a child, I would sit on the edge of my bed every morning with tears running down my face while my mother dragged a brush through the dense forest of curls; a forest that reached almost to my knees. I envied Disney princesses with silky hair that fell down their backs, always without tangles, never demanding for attention like a spoiled child. Theirs was graceful, and mine was something to be conquered. Every morning thus became a battle with a beast that refused to be tamed.

I hate my hair, I’d mumble to myself.

And going to school just made that feeling worse. Before leaving the house, I would stare nervously at my reflection, worrying over my puffy braids, wishing I looked like the girls whose smooth hair stayed perfectly in place.

“One day you’ll appreciate your hair,” my mother would say, patiently dividing handfuls of curls and braiding them with bright-colored hair ties.

But I didn’t believe her. She didn’t know what it was like to press down flyaway curls that seemed to grow bigger in the afternoon humidity during recess, or the embarrassment of feeling as though everyone noticed the circular puff of frizz before they noticed me. As the day progressed, I could imagine my hair becoming messier and messier until it was the only thing you could see. I would hold the big ball of hair down forcefully, wishing it would be tamed before anyone looked too closely.

People often ask why I didn’t simply cut it. However, the answer was more complicated than I understood at the time. As much as I complained about my hair, I couldn’t imagine myself without it. It was frustrating, but it was also familiar. It kept me warm during cold winters and made me recognizable in every family photograph. It represented a piece of my culture: a people whose hair protected them from the blasting sun in harsh temperatures. I hated how much of my mind it took up, but I felt like I couldn’t lose it. Every time my mother suggested cutting it shorter, I refused.

In seventh grade, when all seemed to change, I began to see things differently. One afternoon, more guts than I knew I had prompted me to squeak out the question.

“Could I cut my hair?”

My mother looked at me in utter shock.

When my curls were finally cut off, I looked into the mirror at the salon and thought I would see a different person staring back at me. My hair was not touching my shoulders or falling down my back like it used to. I ran my fingers through my hair and felt the air between them sooner than I expected. Truthfully, it was the first time I’d ever seen my face clearly in the reflection, and I felt good about seeing it.

Maybe cutting my hair wasn’t about changing my appearance, but rather healing my childhood insecurities. It was about stepping outside the circle of thoughts I had repeated to myself for years. For a while, I thought that my curls were something that I should hide, something that was stopping me from being as beautiful as other girls. But cutting my hair did not make me feel better about myself. It showed me that my curls were not the problem. My insecurities were always inside me; they were not in my curls. Instead, they were in the things I told myself when I looked at my reflection and wished I was different.

Even today, I continue to experience the same stubborn frizzy hair in different climates. But now, I look into the mirror and see something unmistakably mine. My hair, which was previously a nuisance to me, taught me this very important fact: Confidence doesn’t result from being someone different from yourself; it results from ending your need to apologize for being who you are. My hair has been a lot of things: raccoon’s fur, a ball of frizz, and an untamable forest. But most importantly, like every curl that bends back toward itself, it reminds me that growth is about finding your way back to yourself.