I Still Avoid Mirrors Because of What People Said About My Head

I grew up knowing my head was big and my nose even bigger. No one had to tell me; mirrors don’t lie. From a young age, I understood how different I looked from the other girls in school. I wasn’t ugly, but I didn’t fit the soft, pretty image that seemed to come naturally to others.

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What I lacked in appearance, I made up for in intelligence. I was one of the brightest students in class, the kind who always passed her exams with ease. My teachers called me the golden girl, a name that followed me from primary school through JHS. Even with that title, I never sought to be the best of the best. I studied just enough to pass my papers and stay safe in my own corner, unnoticed and unbothered.

There were two boys who completed JHS with me. Both were equally intelligent, and funny enough, both had big heads too. Maybe that’s why I felt comfortable around them. We shared an unspoken understanding and a quiet acceptance of who we were. Nobody ever mocked me openly, perhaps because they respected my mind. Still, I could always sense the silent thoughts behind certain smiles.

When I got to senior high school, things changed. I became more aware of how people saw me. The whispers grew louder, even though they were never directed at me. I would catch people glancing my way and then looking off quickly, pretending they hadn’t been staring. I learned to laugh less and speak only when necessary.

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One day, one of my course teachers looked at me in front of the class and casually asked, “Why is your head so big?” Everyone laughed softly, unsure whether to join in or stay quiet. I forced a small smile, pretending it didn’t bother me. But it did. It hurt in a way I couldn’t explain. That single comment confirmed the fear I had carried for years. No matter what I achieved, people would always see the head before they saw me.

After school, life moved on. I earned my degree and now work in a corporate office. From the outside, it looks like I’ve made it. But inside, the same fear lingers. I avoid too much attention, too much eye contact, and too much laughter. I keep conversations brief, afraid someone might make a careless remark about my looks.

The truth is, I never had anyone to teach me confidence. There was no mother to tell me I was beautiful, no father to say I was special just as I was. I grew up with my elder sister, who, instead of encouragement, often used my appearance as a source of jokes. I still remember the day I braided my hair into cornrows, feeling happy and confident for once. When she saw me, she laughed and said, “This hairstyle really shows your head shape.” That single comment buried my confidence. Since that day, I’ve never worn cornrows again. Not once in my 29 years.

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Even braiding my hair at the salon feels like an act of courage. I sit there, tense and quiet, worried the hairstylists might exchange looks or laugh behind my back. It’s exhausting to live with that kind of fear, but it has become second nature to me.

Still, in my quiet moments, I remind myself that the same head people laughed at carries a powerful mind. It is a mind that has survived rejection, silence, and shame. I may not have grown up with affirmations or applause, but I’ve learnt something important. Beauty fades, but brilliance endures.

Maybe one day, I’ll stand in front of a mirror and say to myself, You are enough. Your head is not too big; it simply holds a big dream.

Until then, I’ll keep walking my path quietly. I am the golden girl who never needed to shine loudly to prove her worth.

—Mariam

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