_Jack Portman 2016–17_ On the spectrum of issues facing humanity, mine is of minimal severity and negligible importance. Doctors Without Borders has yet to address its worldly impact, and

the President’s preoccupation with his Twitter feed has prevented his assessment of my issue. Despite its relative insignificance, my fixation on the appearance of my hair affected me

substantially throughout my childhood. No other attribute or occurrence had the capacity to dictate the attitude with which I approached a day. My hair’s refusal to submit to the strokes of

the comb and the ideals of the mind often resulted in irritation and embarrassment. Such hair-related inadequacies began to define my self perception, affecting my mood regularly. Thoughts

makeovers. My hair got puffier as I progressed through middle school. In the seventh grade my Mother suggested I implement a particular hair gel into my morning routine, one promising to

tighten my natural waves into full, defined curls. As I was never fond of my hair, I figured any deviation from the norm was a step in the right direction. However, the hot, humid Georgian

summer quickly realized numerous disadvantages of having giant puffy hair. The ‘fro, as it came to be known, quickly became a chore that required maintenance, rather than a solution to my

insecurity. Following an especially bad hair day during the summer of my tenth grade year, I delivered to my mother a passionate diatribe, professing years of anguish resulting from my hair.

Expecting a sympathetic response, I was surprised by her reaction. Laughing hysterically, she had buried her face in a pillow. I eventually saw the humor in my petty tirade as well. My

curly hair was in actuality not an indicator of my worth as an individual, and it wouldn’t deter me from pursuing happiness. It became apparent that my overarching concern with the precise

details of my hair was preventing me from appreciating my otherwise fortunate life. Atop the piano in our living room, amongst a scattering of various family photos, sits a childhood picture

of my Father in which a dense, curly mullet descends past his shoulders. He not only accepted the wavy curls which he possessed, but embraced them to an extreme proportion. Having been

there myself (to a slightly lesser extent and in a decidedly futile effort), I decided to navigate towards the opposite end of the spectrum, a buzz cut. In doing so, I dealt with the

ungainliness of my hair just as my father before me; embracing the hair with which I was born by finding an extreme that worked for my needs. While he grew his hair to the fullest extent in

an effort to vanquish the awkward waves, I cut mine short and achieved the same effect. I’ve thought very little about my hair since cutting it. It looks the same whether I’m playing

basketball with friends or surfing the internet in bed. I am absolved of much stress in knowing there is no tonsorial means by which I can alter its appearance. But while I no longer obsess

over my hair, it’s unlikely that I will remain perfectly confident for the remainder of my life. The human body is sixty seven percent water, with the remainder being comprised of insecurity

and doubt. It is impossible to predict what diffidence I will face down the road, but I can definitely say that insecurity affects everyone. Presently relieved of my hair related

insecurity, I contently await my next inhibition. I will certainly enjoy the meantime.