A Creative Writing Piece on Who I Am:
I am who I am. My hair is thick, curly and complex. It is a reflection of my personality, which is dense with pride for my familial heritage and filled with emotion.
I am a wanderer and a traveler and my hair has always come along for the ride. Its curls are captured on passports and driver’s licenses, marking past vacations and ones to come. It escapes from home along with me to faraway places.,traveling across borders and state lines. The salty waves of Jones Beach and the crisp clean waters of Cancun have drenched my hair. It has been bathed in upstate lakes and dampened by the mist of Niagara Falls. It has grazed against the shoulders of multiple strangers and friends alike.
My unruly mane has been pinned up, away from my face, as I run down a grassy field with the wind on my back. It falls in wisps against my neck, as I kick the soccer ball toward the open net. I face every game with the passion and promise of victory, and afterward, let down my cascading curls on open fields beside lifelong friends.
Creativity is buried in my curls. My hair dangles into pots of paste and is carelessly dipped into paint as I hunch over half finished projects. Long organic strokes are used to draw out the body of my hair in a self-portrait and it becomes the focal point of who I am and who I want to be.
My hair is inherited through a strong genetic link: curly and thick like my Dad’s side of the family, and rich in color from my Mom's. My hair is a symbol of my heritage. It’s dark roots been passed down through the Sicilian and Neapolitan lines of my Italian lineage. At one time, when I was in middle school, I didn’t understand the significance of this burdensome trait. . “Why was I cursed with this unruly mop on my head?” I once shouted as I saw my tearful reflection in the mirror. But in that same mirror, years later, I began to appreciate the richness of my hair, as I began to love myself. I am who I am.
I am a wanderer and a traveler and my hair has always come along for the ride. Its curls are captured on passports and driver’s licenses, marking past vacations and ones to come. It escapes from home along with me to faraway places.,traveling across borders and state lines. The salty waves of Jones Beach and the crisp clean waters of Cancun have drenched my hair. It has been bathed in upstate lakes and dampened by the mist of Niagara Falls. It has grazed against the shoulders of multiple strangers and friends alike.
My unruly mane has been pinned up, away from my face, as I run down a grassy field with the wind on my back. It falls in wisps against my neck, as I kick the soccer ball toward the open net. I face every game with the passion and promise of victory, and afterward, let down my cascading curls on open fields beside lifelong friends.
Creativity is buried in my curls. My hair dangles into pots of paste and is carelessly dipped into paint as I hunch over half finished projects. Long organic strokes are used to draw out the body of my hair in a self-portrait and it becomes the focal point of who I am and who I want to be.
My hair is inherited through a strong genetic link: curly and thick like my Dad’s side of the family, and rich in color from my Mom's. My hair is a symbol of my heritage. It’s dark roots been passed down through the Sicilian and Neapolitan lines of my Italian lineage. At one time, when I was in middle school, I didn’t understand the significance of this burdensome trait. . “Why was I cursed with this unruly mop on my head?” I once shouted as I saw my tearful reflection in the mirror. But in that same mirror, years later, I began to appreciate the richness of my hair, as I began to love myself. I am who I am.