Sometimes it’s the unintentional words that sting the most.

It happened on the third day of sophomore year, on a bus for the annual service trip. The sun beat mercilessly into the gaping windows as girls’ hair glued to their faces and boys’ shirts stuck to their backs. But I didn’t have a problem with my hair, because I had French braided it in the morning. They were neat, even, and kept the strands out of my eyes. They felt like a masterpiece.

A boy I’d only met days prior sank into the seat beside mine and struck up a conversation. I forget exactly what we talked about, probably our families and what music we liked. I marveled when he said he lived near Six Flags, he nodded with approval at my plethora of Spotify playlists. Suddenly. a breeze swept a hair loose from the confines of its braid, tickling my nose. Almost subconsciously, I slicked it back up and tucked it away.

“Damn, you could fit a six-lane highway onto that forehead!” 

I froze. What?

The boy scoffed and pointed at my forehead. “It’s huge,” he added.

I felt every cell in my body deflate as my face flushed with fire. “That’s not funny.” But my voice wavered.

“Sheesh, I was literally joking.”

“It’s okay.” 

It wasn’t really okay, said the roaring in my eardrums. Is this what people notice when they first see me? Do they call me Megamind, say that I look bald from the front? Do they think I’m ugly? The face that stared back through the mirror hissed these words with scorn. I unraveled my hair, let the strands fall back over my face, and swore to never wear it up again. 

This seemingly brief interaction lodged itself into the crevices of my brain, shadowing me wherever I went. Throughout my sophomore year, I dodged photographs, cut bangs impulsively, and wore hats to conceal my “highway”. I was hopelessly convinced that I’d become the school laughing stock if I didn’t conceal this abnormal mound of skin ridden with acne scars. Every time I opened Tiktok and saw another influencer with the perfect hairline, my face would burn with shame and crippling insecurity. Comical, isn’t it, that my mindset was so deeply affected by ten words spoken by a naive boy?

I wish that I could have concluded this narrative with a heartwarming comeback about my newfound confidence. Unfortunately, I still suffer from the aftermath of this encounter, but I am trying my hardest to love the features that define who I am. This journey has been and will continue to be tough, but one day, it’ll have passed like a car cruising down the highway.

As a last word of wisdom, please don’t joke about a physical trait, especially one that can’t change. One sentence can make or break someone’s self-esteem.