Personal Narrative About My Hair

People always joke with me about my hair. Jokes about how I could tie blades at the end of my hair and whip it around like some kind of ninja warrior. It’s completely understandable to view two long braids as secret weapons of a trained assassin. I could probably use it as a weapon, if I wanted to. It was definitely long enough. Braided, my hair was a bit past my waist. “Why do you keep your hair so long?” people always ask me. How many times has my mom asked me this? How many times has she told me tying my hair in pigtails was too childish for someone in high school, especially for someone going on to college? Even funnier, is the number of times people my age have told me the same thing. When I was little, my favorite superhero had hair
that went down to her ankles. Clearly the only way to be a superhero, my five-year-old brain deduced, was to have long hair. My seventeen-year-old brain is still figuring out why my superpowers haven’t set in. Initially, maybe this was my reason for growing out my hair, but now, I’m not sure. There’s no logical explanation for why people do many things. Do I need a reason for doing something, other than the fact that I love doing it? I love my hair. I love how I can create untold possibilities with my hair. Give me a few bobby pins and I can transform into Princess Leia in a matter of seconds. Not just anyone can swing their hair above their head and turn into a helicopter. I don’t want to fit in with the norm of society; I like that my hair makes me different. Creativity is about expressing yourself in your own way without being tainted by other people’s opinions. My hair is a part of what makes me, me. I won’t force myself to wear some generic ponytail just because it’s the norm. I love my braided ropes of hair, and no one will unravel it but me. Why do I have such long hair? Because it makes me happy.