Physical Appearances Do Not Define a Person

Wallflower, a person who because of shyness remains at the side lines. The sidelines, a term I’ve become so accustomed to, I’m not really the type of person that enjoys being the center of attention. I would rather keep my thoughts to myself and let everyone else speak for themselves than to say what I feel. Having said that, anybody could probably assume that I’m not really a fan of change. My physical appearance has always been an issue to me, I could never really fit in.

I’m a hispanic girl with dark brown hair, big, dark brown eyes, fairly light skin, and freckles. My funny sisters always teased me about my appearance saying things like “hey, bug eyes how was school? ” or ” you belong outside, since you look like an owl”.

My very immature sisters also seem to think I have a resemblance to Mort from madagascar. When I was in preschool, I had hair that went all the way down to the bottom of my hips.

It was as curly as Shirley Temple’s hair, maybe a little more. Other people absolutely adored my long luscious curls and I did too. They would always gossip with my mom about it. They tried asking me about it but I would blush and hide behind my mom’s leg, as if doing that would make me invisible. After my mom decorated my hair with bows, I wouldn’t complain because that’s just who I was. A cute little girl with long brown curly hair.

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About half way through preschool my mom found a job, she’d been trying to find one for awhile but none of them fit what she was looking for so she just kind of put it off. She couldn’t do that any longer because we had barely moved into our house and bills had to be paid. It was really rough on me and my sisters because my mom and dad were both gone before school, but my two older sisters were already old enough to walk to school since it was only about two blocks away from where we lived. Preschool on the other hand was about two miles away which required me to have a bus. But, my bus didn’t come until noon which meant I needed someone to care for me during the morning hours that my parents were at work. That’s where my grandpa, or abuelito, as I called him came in. My grandpa looked

exactly like your typical hispanic man, Black hair with some grey streaks in it, medium dark skin and he obviously had the dark black, thick, bushy mustache. My grandpa was not as young as he looked. But he sure did act the age he looked. He was my favorite person and I knew I was his. Since he took care of me and my cousin who was the same age as me and also went to the same school as me. Every morning he would wake me up first and make me wake my sluggish cousin. My unbearably slow cousin who never wanted to get up, my cousin would take his time eating and take his time in the shower and he was just identical to a snail, cruising through our morning routine as if he had all the time in the world. Since I was faster my grandpa would wake me up first also because it took him awhile to brush my hair and it took time to let it dry. My impatient grandpa would never put bows in my hair or even try to style it just because brushing it out would already take up half of the time we had. A few months after my grandpa decided he couldn’t do my hair anymore. It was really difficult for him to brush it because my hair was so curly so one day he told my parents about it.

My long brown curls had just become a battle for him and so my parents decided it was time for me to get a haircut. Obviously I fought as hard as I could to keep them from talking my identity away, my curly hair was what defined me and I wasn’t about to go down without a fight. The next couple of days I refused to let my grandpa touch my hair I would throw tantrums and make him chase me all over the house. This was funny to my cousin because he was usually the one being chased after. The saturday after that school week we went to the hair salon and all my hair was chopped off but not before I threw the biggest tantrum that ever happened I cried and I ran and threw myself to the ground but they finally got me in the chair. After the haircut I remember not wanting to look at myself. But eventually I had to and my identity was gone. The following Monday I refused to talk to my grandpa. I could see in his eyes that he was full of guilt and he tried so hard to make me smile old cousin turned but I was like a rock I had no intentions of forgiving him. We were on the bus my hands were clammy and my face felt as hot as a summer’s day. I was so afraid to get to school and have to face all of those snarky four year olds in my class. That’s when my four year to look at me and said “just because you look different doesn’t mean you are different”.

At that moment I didn’t realize just how important that sentence was, but soon I would know exactly what he meant. When we got to school nobody seemed to care about what I looked like, everything was exactly like it had been the week before, when I got home. I hugged my grandpa. As if nothing had happened and I knew that he was relieved because his love for me was greater than anything my little mind could possibly imagine. To this day I regret being a brat that morning because my grandpa who had given me everything did not deserve what I made him go through that morning. As for my cousin the one who had been observing everything and saying nothing, the one who was as slow and unproductive as a sloth I don’t think he will ever understand just how much the words of his four year old self helped me even as a junior in highschool those words will forever be in the back of my mind. What I look like does not define me as a person, physical appearance isn’t who I am, and now I realize that if someone doesn’t like me for what is on the outside. They don’t deserve to know who I really am on the inside.