I was the ugliest little eleven year old in existence. No one had ever lived that was more gross or more ugly than I was, and it was all my mom’s fault.

I had woken up an hour early that day, shoving a pink, crusty iPad into my mother's face. The iPad showed a photo of a young woman with two intricately-done French braids framing her neck, like gorgeous golden cobras. I practically begged my mom to try it on my hair. Nevermind the fact that it had gone unbrushed for the past three months. Nevermind the fact that the only braid she could do was a three-stranded one.

Now, we were in the bathroom. A sour feeling was forming in the pit of my stomach. She must have noticed, because she said to me, I know it’s not perfect. She said she knew I wanted something better. But I was not listening.

I brought a tentative hand up to one of the braids she had done. It tangled its way down my scalp, sticking up at odd ends and pulling on the flesh. The other drooped meekly, threatening to unravel. Craning my neck, I found her eyes in the mirror. The motion pulled at the various knots in my hair.

I wanted these braids to be beautiful. I needed it. But they weren’t. They just weren’t.

I wordlessly pushed past her to the basement. She called after me. She said, you better like them, because I’m not doing them again. We were silent all the way to school.

In elementary school, people would rather consume vomit-flavored jelly beans than admit to staring at you, but as I entered the building, I knew all eyes were on me. I just knew it.

I met the Hairgirls that day. They were normal enough, as sixth-grade girls went. The one with bright, red hair and eyes that betrayed her childhood was named Carmen. She seemed to be the leader of the three. The other two I did not pay attention to. I only noticed their identical syrupy hair and their fidgeting as they awaited Carmen’s commands. These three were like cats, I thought. They were a clutter, and they were my ticket to being liked. I decided they would be my friends for the year.

Together, the Hairgirls and I walked to our new classroom. I observed the way Unnoticeable Girl Number One’s backpack jumped as she bounded beside Carmen. 

“Carmen,” she said, “Car-uh-men, you’re coming to my house after school, right?” 

I frowned. 

Instead of answering, Carmen said, “You see that girl’s jacket? What is that?”

She cursed? Gross.

I padded after them, snaking a hand through my braids. The Hairgirls had the most beautiful hair I had ever seen. Carmen had hers pulled back in a bun that waved in all directions, in all the right ways. Her lackeys had long, straight hair that looked loved. Their mothers probably brushed it every morning. My hand tightened on my backpack strap.

The table the girls chose in the classroom was round and sat directly next to the boys’ spot. I felt the dread build as I saw them interact with each other. I didn’t want to talk to the boys. Panicked, I distracted myself by pulling up a chair to the already-full table. It just barely fit.

Today, we were doing icebreakers, which meant awkward silences as our teacher tried desperately to get us to say anything. Suddenly, we all had dogs, and all our favorite colors were blue. I was writing down my three favorite things on my Get-To-Know-Me activity sheet when I noticed that Carmen was not writing anything. The other girls weren’t, either. Instead, they were all staring at me. Slow as a sloth on a two-lane highway, I set down my pencil. The smile I gave them cursed all their mothers, but they didn’t know that. The next topic of conversation was on who-was-dating-who. We did not finish the activity.

Lunch was a repeat of the table situation. Now, I was squished between a boy I did not know and Unnoticeable Girl Number Two. They passed food to each other by reaching around me. I heard snickers behind my back and the crinkling of a Fruit Roll-Up wrapper. They were flirting. I wanted to chop off their hands.

It was recess when the girls decided to abandon me. They ran off giggling, leaving me sitting on a bench that would give any child premature arthritis. Did they not notice when I said I wanted to chill here for the block? Didn’t they know that when your friends sit down and do nothing, you’re not supposed to do anything either? Everyone in this school hated me.

I watched them from across the blacktop basketball court. Currently, they were berating a girl for her questionable neon purple shoes and sparkly tutu. The fact that they were so unabashedly mocking her shocked me; hadn’t their mothers ever told them not to judge? These girls were so weird. Tutu girl was, too. How hard was it to stand up to bullies? I stayed glued to my seat.

After recess, I ran into some other girls in the bathroom. They were sitting on the grimy tiled floor, holding hands and laying out Pokémon cards. Their hair was long and short and in-between, and one girl’s braid touched the filthy floor, I noted. I stepped up to the only mirror in the room.

“Your braids are pretty,” one of them said. 

I ignored it. 

“They’re so good, who did them?” another asked. 

I ignored it. 

Their opinions weren’t important. They weren’t the Hairgirls. Besides, I knew they meant none of it. I started undoing the knots, careful to keep my gaze on the mirror. A hand landed on my shoulder, and I whipped around to see all of them staring at me. All of those disgusting girls. I was roadkill. They were my vultures.

I forced my way past them, trying to escape their gazes of pity. My hair was half undone now, and falling rapidly. Childlike laughter emanated from the bathroom as I fled. I chanced a glance back. A glimpse of hands grasping hands and hair spinning wildly brought me to the edge of the doorframe. They were dancing. Those disgusting girls were dancing. They seemed to be having real fun, too.

Maybe a part of me should have realized I was being hypocritical just then. Maybe I should have realized that not everyone was out to get me and that I needed to change. Maybe I should have realized they were just trying to be nice. They were just girls, after all.

They were just girls.

Gross, disgusting girls.

I took out my hair.