The Nerd Chronicles

In the annals of my high school history, there is a chapter dedicated to the brave, the bold, and the unabashedly nerdy. I was the latter. Towering height, gawky limbs, lots of baby fat and eyebrows that looked like caterpillars serving as canopies for my coke bottom glasses. I had no illusions of grandeur when it came to my popularity status.

My adolescence was painfully awkweird with many episodes of being called out for nothing more than being geeky. Bobby Meyers (the cool kid) made a point of turning around in his seat during civics and making fun of me to make himself look good. Once it was the peach fuzz on my upper lip which he said was darker than his. Everyone broke out laughing. I wanted the earth to swallow me whole. At least we didn’t have social media back then, because that scene would have gone viral.

I decided then, if I was going to be different—I may as well break a leg (figuratively speaking). I entered the tumultuous world of adolescence, where fitting in was the ultimate quest. I embarked on a hair-raising adventure—one that involved scissors, and aspirations of of being a rebel, because one day, something stirred within my geeky heart, and that something was Mia Farrow's iconic pixie cut.

Mia Farrow, with her short hair had turned Hollywood upside down and had captured my imagination. She was my ultimate nerd hero, not because of her acting prowess, though that was impressive too, but because she embodied the idea of not conforming to societal norms. My young, impressionable mind decided that I should be like Mia, and the first step was the haircut.

With visions of pixie-perfection dancing in my head, I strode into my father’s barber and showed him a picture of Mia’s cut. The barber raised an eyebrow at my radical request, but I was undeterred. In a matter of minutes, his scissors were unleashed and resembling Edward Scissorhands, tufts of my hair fluttered to the ground like leaves in the wind. I watched, wide-eyed, as my once-moderately long mop of hair transformed into something resembling a pixie tangled mess. And so, my short hair became a symbol of my nerdiness. I did the walk of shame through the halls of my high school with my head bent, looking like a cross between my dad and a very tall garden gnome.

As the days turned into weeks, my hair started to grow and with it, so did my confidence. I had experimented with my hair, so now I began experimenting with fashion, ditching my oversized sweaters and baggy pants for more flattering outfits that highlighted my body. I even started wearing contacts instead of my coke bottom glasses. 

By the time I was a freshman in college I was turning heads wherever I went. For awhile, I thought I was dragging toilet paper off the heel of my sneakers. My confidence soared, and I started to embrace my inner beauty and intelligence. I proved to myself that beauty comes in many forms, and sometimes, all it takes is a little time, and a lot courage to break free from stereotypes and embrace your true self.

I hope that my adolescent self continues to teach me that with a bit of bravery coupled with a dash of self-discovery, and daring to be different—that anyone can transform into the person they were always meant to be.

Last but not least, I hope that Bobby Meyer is bald, has a huge beer belly, wears sandals with socks and is living in a funky low-rent South Florida retirement home near an alligator infested swamp.