Ever since I was a little girl I have been incredibly shy, painfully so.  I could never ask adults for things or speak up for things I wanted or needed.  My younger, brash sister would ask for me or right the injustices against me.

As I got older I did gain confidence in my tiny bubble at a very small private school.  I was in class with the same kids year after year.  My eighth grade class had only 22 students, whose birthdays I can still remember.  This group had been with me through most of the life I could remember.  It was possible, by 13, to be completely myself.  I sang a solo in our musical review that last spring even though I refuse to sing in front of almost everyone now.  I created art, wrote stories, gave bravado persuassive speeches, studied fervently, and read.  Read, read, read, read, read.

Then public school happened.  This was an excruciating experience.  I was the “new kid.”  No one knew my birthday or my middle name.  I sat alone at lunch, tried to find my way through the buildings, and prayed I remembered my locker combination.  I was terrified, self-conscious, and knew embarrassment lurked around every corner.  I was completely alone.

The first day I arrived at my second class late, escorted by an assistant principal who found me wandering in the commons.  It was Speech, a class I was two years ahead of thanks to my private education.  The teacher explained that we would all give an autobiographical speech, off the cuff, as our first assignment.  I knew how to do that.  It would be easy.  In that instant I decided I could be whatever I wanted to be.  When she asked for a volunteer to go first, I raised my hand.  I presented a new me.

As the new kid I quickly fell in with the misfits and “individualists.”  Long story short, my senior year began with my head shaved, which explains everything you need to know about the three and half years I spent in high school.

Something, something, painfully shy, something, something, shaved head.