claudiacorsini
Oct 3, 2025
Undergraduate / curly hair main common app essay [2]
Who knew having curly hair would become my greatest teacher? Every morning of my childhood, I waged war upon it. I arose when the sky was still black, ready to begin my daily battle, weilding my comb like a weapon, tugging and yanking until every knot disappeared, desperate to flatten the coils that disobeyed me. I glared at my bathroom mirror under the scrutiny of fluorescent lights, only to be welcomed with a reflection of frizz and stubborn curls. I imagined myself with silky straight hair and envied my friends whose hair slid smoothly over their shoulders, easily restrained by a ponytail without fighting with bumps. Mine stood out, wild and unyielding, coarse from my mother's Puerto Rican roots, light in color from my dad's Italian side. Each curl seemed like a piece of my story, which I didn't yet know how to read.
It wasn't simply the mere appearance of my curly hair that I struggled to accept. It was all the ways in which my unruly hair conflicted with my heritage. Fighting with my hair, a symbol of my complicated family background. My mom grew up knowing she was Puerto Rican by blood, but adopted by white, Jewish parents; she often felt distant from the culture of her biological heritage. My dad, in contrast, was born in Jamaica, though he is fully white. He speaks proudly about it, filling conversations with stories of the island along with its traditions. I admired both sides, yet I constantly found myself stuck in between. My identity was fragmented into two worlds that I couldn't blend.
In 8th grade, my self-perception evolved after visiting Puerto Rico for the first time. The moment I stepped off the plane, I felt the thick humidity of the air engulf me, carrying the scent of salt from the ocean. The island pulsed with energy, bright murals stretched across the walls, music spilled into the streets, and the smell of the delicious traditional food captivated me. For the first time, I saw women with hair like mine everywhere I looked, distinctly noticeable. With each person I passed, my insecurity and identity confusion began to diminish. Their curls framed their faces like crowns, bouncing freely. They weren't fighting their hair; they were embracing it.
I wandered through the narrow cobblestone-paved streets of San Juan, sampling golden brown empanadas, mofongo piled high with garlic and crispy chicharron, and pastelillos hot from the fryer. Each flavor was bold and comforting, like memories I had always carried, yet never experienced. As I continued down the narrow roads, the thunder of bomba drums grew louder, inviting me to watch street performers, their rhythm vibrating through the ground as they twirled, skirts spinning in a blur of color. My heartbeat synced with the beat, connecting me to something far greater than myself. For the first time, I didn't feel divided. My curls, my features, my heritage all belonged, seamlessly woven into me. I no longer saw my physical attributes as an enemy, but a friend. I felt whole.
My image in the mirror started changing, no longer a girl ashamed of her incongruent frizzy hair, begging to be confined in cages of scrunchies, I saw a girl with a beaming smile, who built a foundation of pride in her complicated identity. Puerto Rico allowed my individuality to blossom, teaching me that heritage isn't something to push aside, but something to live, taste, hear, and treasure. My hair became a symbol of resilience, identity, and belonging.
When people meet me, they may not see a Latina, but I know this piece of me is part of my culture, my history, and my story. My curls are proof that conflict can become a connection. Looking ahead to college, this lesson will guide me. I will approach challenges with resilience, embrace new perspectives with pride, and carry every part of my identity with strength.
Who knew having curly hair would become my greatest teacher? Every morning of my childhood, I waged war upon it. I arose when the sky was still black, ready to begin my daily battle, weilding my comb like a weapon, tugging and yanking until every knot disappeared, desperate to flatten the coils that disobeyed me. I glared at my bathroom mirror under the scrutiny of fluorescent lights, only to be welcomed with a reflection of frizz and stubborn curls. I imagined myself with silky straight hair and envied my friends whose hair slid smoothly over their shoulders, easily restrained by a ponytail without fighting with bumps. Mine stood out, wild and unyielding, coarse from my mother's Puerto Rican roots, light in color from my dad's Italian side. Each curl seemed like a piece of my story, which I didn't yet know how to read.
It wasn't simply the mere appearance of my curly hair that I struggled to accept. It was all the ways in which my unruly hair conflicted with my heritage. Fighting with my hair, a symbol of my complicated family background. My mom grew up knowing she was Puerto Rican by blood, but adopted by white, Jewish parents; she often felt distant from the culture of her biological heritage. My dad, in contrast, was born in Jamaica, though he is fully white. He speaks proudly about it, filling conversations with stories of the island along with its traditions. I admired both sides, yet I constantly found myself stuck in between. My identity was fragmented into two worlds that I couldn't blend.
In 8th grade, my self-perception evolved after visiting Puerto Rico for the first time. The moment I stepped off the plane, I felt the thick humidity of the air engulf me, carrying the scent of salt from the ocean. The island pulsed with energy, bright murals stretched across the walls, music spilled into the streets, and the smell of the delicious traditional food captivated me. For the first time, I saw women with hair like mine everywhere I looked, distinctly noticeable. With each person I passed, my insecurity and identity confusion began to diminish. Their curls framed their faces like crowns, bouncing freely. They weren't fighting their hair; they were embracing it.
I wandered through the narrow cobblestone-paved streets of San Juan, sampling golden brown empanadas, mofongo piled high with garlic and crispy chicharron, and pastelillos hot from the fryer. Each flavor was bold and comforting, like memories I had always carried, yet never experienced. As I continued down the narrow roads, the thunder of bomba drums grew louder, inviting me to watch street performers, their rhythm vibrating through the ground as they twirled, skirts spinning in a blur of color. My heartbeat synced with the beat, connecting me to something far greater than myself. For the first time, I didn't feel divided. My curls, my features, my heritage all belonged, seamlessly woven into me. I no longer saw my physical attributes as an enemy, but a friend. I felt whole.
My image in the mirror started changing, no longer a girl ashamed of her incongruent frizzy hair, begging to be confined in cages of scrunchies, I saw a girl with a beaming smile, who built a foundation of pride in her complicated identity. Puerto Rico allowed my individuality to blossom, teaching me that heritage isn't something to push aside, but something to live, taste, hear, and treasure. My hair became a symbol of resilience, identity, and belonging.
When people meet me, they may not see a Latina, but I know this piece of me is part of my culture, my history, and my story. My curls are proof that conflict can become a connection. Looking ahead to college, this lesson will guide me. I will approach challenges with resilience, embrace new perspectives with pride, and carry every part of my identity with strength.
