You hear everyday people worrying about their hair just to make sure it is perfect. For me, there is no need to fuss over my hair every five minutes. But, when I think of hair, my mind flashes back to the time I first donated my hair to a company called Locks of Love. It all started eight years ago back in Valley Stream, New York.

Imagine this. Shinning pearl white flakes fall carelessly to the ground, making the ground transform as white as fluffy clouds gliding upon then phenomenal light blue sky. Pine trees are caked with snow, making it look like the perfect Christmas tree right in your backyard. Clear, artic water freezes right on a bare branch, forming a sharp point that looks like a knife. It points accusingly to the ground as if the ground has committed a crime. If the slightest pressure was applied to the branch, the glacial water will collapse, killing the ground and marking the point where it killed its prim enemy. Yet, when broken off a branch and taken a lick at, it sticks to your tongue like super glue and melts into your mouth from a solid object, to subzero water. This is what New York is like.

When I was born, my hair was never cut except for a trim or two. So, for five years, my long silky black hair has grown up to fifteen inches, brushing right at my knees. That was a wonderful feeling for me. I thought that there never would be a time where this would all disappear. I was definitely wrong. My mother mentioned one day that we should cut my hair. I felt as if a hundred lightning bolts suddenly struck me all at once. I never knew what it felt like to cut my hair and I became nervous. I refused to let my mother take me to the barbershop.

Later on, my mom found out about an organization called Locks of Love. It is a Florida-based not-for profit organization that started in December 1997. You can donate your hair and they use it to make wigs for children who have cancer or any form of disease where they have permanent hair loss. With my hair, including thirteen other ponytails, it will make one wig for a child depending on the desired length. Once my mom explained this to me, I regretted my feelings before and I really wanted to help those kids, so I was on my way into the barbershop and up on the chair anxious to have my first haircut. It felt like it took a million years, but my stylist let me hold fifteen inches of my hair.

Suddenly, mobs of news reporters congested around to get my picture taken. Before your know it, my story was splattered all over New York. I had enjoyed contributing in this program so much that I donated my hair three years later here in Florida when I was eight. So, instead of worrying about my hair everyday, I think of how I donated my hair for children who didn’t even have hair, which makes me feel proud.