When I was in sixth grade, I learned my hair made me different. I was 11 and a new student in a predominately white private school in Columbia, South Carolina. My mother had moved me there from a majority Black charter school where I had sat in classrooms among little Black girls who sported multicolored barrettes in their pretty braids and put pink bows in their slicked-back ponytails. At the new school, there was me and Brianna.
In my new world, my definition of beauty was no longer the consensus. Some of the pretty little white girls had dyed their
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