Recently, while looking at old photos, I came across one from third grade that stopped me. My hair was shaved on one side, and I remembered instantly how small I felt that day.
It made me think about how much growing up, and even starting college, is about unlearning the shame we once carried with ourselves. In a place where everyone is trying to redefine who they are, the words others use can still shape how we see ourselves for years.
The haircut wasn’t a trend I saw on TV or a style I begged for. I wasn’t trying to stand out. In fact, I would have done anything to disappear.
A temporary scalp infection had ruined how my hair was growing: patchy on one side, thinning on the other. I remember being the only girl sitting in the barber’s chair while my mom stood behind me, clippers buzzing. She tried to soften the blow.
“You’ll look like Rihanna,” she said, smiling. “She has this hairstyle right now. It’s cool.”
But I didn’t feel cool. Instead, I felt exposed, like someone had peeled off a layer of my armor and identity.
I wasn’t thinking about Rihanna’s stage presence or her careless, confident attitude. I was thinking about how to hold back tears walking into school the next morning with half my head shaved. I even tried to skip school, but my mom took the extra effort to drive me there herself.
No one said I looked like Rihanna. They stared and whispered instead. Some laughed. No one outright bullied me, but their silence – or the quiet comments they made when they thought I couldn’t hear – cut deeper than any joke.
I suddenly became hyperaware of every inch of myself, including the shape of my head, the way my clothes fit and the space I took up. I didn’t know the word for it then, but now I do: disempowered.
That haircut was the first time I realized the power that appearance and language hold over our sense of identity. It was also the first time I understood how quickly other people can decide who you are before you even figure it out for yourself.
Looking back, my mom’s comment, “You’ll look like Rihanna,” was more than just a distraction. She was giving me a new frame through which to view myself, trying to rewrite the script before it even started: You are strong. You are bold. You are not weird. You’re iconic.
It didn’t work right away. I still shrank into myself. But years later, I appreciate her attempt to give me a voice I didn’t yet have.
Voice isn’t only about speaking. It’s the internal dialogue we carry with ourselves. It’s the words we accept, reject or reshape. It’s how we decide who we are.
Coming to Syracuse University, I’ve felt some of those same feelings return. I hesitate before speaking up, and I still face the quiet fear of standing out too much.
Sometimes I still wonder if I have to fight to make my voice heard or if people naturally see me for who I am. But being here has also made me realize how much I’ve grown. I notice the moments when I choose to speak anyway, when I wear what I want or share an opinion, even when it’s different from others.
I’m learning that finding my voice isn’t something that happens once – it’s something I have to keep practicing. And even when I feel unsure, I know I’m not shrinking myself anymore.
That haircut was the first time I felt like my identity was being constructed from the outside in. Growing up gave me the chance to push back. I’ve experimented with how I talk, how I write, how I dress and show up.
I’ve learned that much of our self-perception comes tangled in what others tell us, from families, communities, the media and classmates. Sometimes we get to shape that narrative. Other times, we’re just trying to survive it.
This story still matters because moments like that don’t end with childhood. They happen in college, too — maybe not over a haircut, but over majors, friendships, culture and belonging. We’re all still in that hallway, hoping no one laughs.
The difference is that we have something now that younger versions of ourselves didn’t: voice. Not just the ability to speak, but the ability to name what we’re feeling, reclaim our image, laugh at what once embarrassed us and find power in the stories that once made us feel small.
When I think back to that haircut, I don’t just cringe. I think about kids today with bold styles and even bolder attitudes, and I wonder if they’re confident or faking it like I was. Either way, I hope someone is telling them they look like Rihanna.
Not because they do, but because they deserve to feel like they could.
Mira Melinda Anosike is a freshman majoring in forensic science and psychology. She can be reached at manosike@syr.edu
