I can't wait for Papi to pick me up from the airport.

I remember he always told me to be proud of who I was. Nodding, swallowing back tears, I never wanted him to know the truth. How much I hated how brown my skin was, the intense embarrassment I felt when he spoke English in public, and of course, the hatred for the thick unruly curls on my head, inherited from him.

I used to sit atop the toilet, legs dangling down, and wait while my mother would do my hair. "Ponytail, por favor!" I would squeal. Her hands would fly, creating careful ringlets with the twists of her fingers.

Every Sunday she would tie a large bow with a ribbon around my tightly wound hair, matching my frilly dress and shiny leather shoes. I sashayed by all the pews in church feeling like a little princess, ringlets bouncing with my every step.

Papi would scoop me up in his arms, tell me stories about his mother, mi abuelita. She had curly hair down to her waist, and the whole village knew her as "la China," which translates to The Curly One. "If she could only see you now, Michelita," he'd say.

Papi told me my hair was beautiful. I believed him.

I grew up and my mother didn't do my hair anymore. There I stood, alone, staring in front of a mirror without a clue how to start. My hands didn't move like hers. They couldn't weave through my hair with her ease. This led me to spend the most awkward years of my life with even more awkward attempts at hairstyles.

It was a downward spiral from there - no pun intended.

I started to realize that every curl that grazed my face reminded me how different I was from my friends and peers. I wasn't like them, and they took notice. I could handle ridicule about the tacos, tostadas, and frijoles I brought to lunch at school. I could bite my tongue when kids asked if I swam over the border. But the minute a schoolmate asked me why my hair wasn't pretty and straight, I lost it. The pride I had in my natural curls withered.

My group of girlfriends didn't look anything like me. I wished I could be blond, and have shiny straight hair that glistened in the sun. Instead, I had frizz and insufferable hair to deal with in the heat.

I'd come home crying, begging my mom to do my hair the next morning. But it wasn't the same. My legs no longer dangled down as I sat, and those old hairstyles weren't cool enough for junior high.

My mom told me not to worry, that I shouldn't pay attention to any of those gringas.

My mom told me my hair was beautiful. I couldn't believe her.

In high school I discovered products. Gel and mousse. I would scour teen magazines for any articles on dealing with curls. I'd stare at pictures of Julia Roberts, Minnie Driver, and yes, even Kenny G and wonder how they could pull it off.

I secretly purchased a hair straightening iron my junior year in high school. My hands trembled opening up the box. After two hours, and two burns on my neck and arm, I proudly marched to my parents in the kitchen and said, "Look what I did!" My mother yelped about my burns, and I saw Papi's face fall. "It looks nice, mija," he said quietly.

Throughout college I straightened my hair every day. I felt prettier; it wasn't as annoying, and for once in my life I kind of felt like my girlfriends. It was refreshing, a new beginning for me. There were some people who didn't even know I had naturally curly hair.

The day I headed to the Poynter Institute in Florida, the first thing to go in my carry-on bag was my flat iron.

Our first night we were asked to talk about an important item we brought and explain its significance. I without a second thought chose my flat iron. However, the significance came later, halfway through the program.

There was something about the people I met here, an indescribable comfort I embraced with them. The first time a 5 p.m. St. Petersburg rainstorm dowsed me, I didn't care that my hair had been ruined and began to curl up. And they didn't care either.

And that's how it began.

Going against everything that's in my nature, I started to not straighten my hair. I had started to let my guard down, let the summer fellows see the quirky, uninhibited side of me, and I decided it was going to include letting them see the real behavior of the hair on my head.

The reaction I received was like nothing I have ever experienced. Everyone was thrilled and delighted to see my curly hair.

Barton Glasser attacked my hair with his hands while we waited in line at Chipotle and said, "I've been wanting to do that all day."

Monique Garcia took me aside one night and told me, "Michelita, you should never straighten your hair again."

They all told me my hair was beautiful. And I believed them.

I haven't decided to never straighten my hair again, but for the most part, it's going to stay curly. Because that's who I am at heart.

I have experienced a realization deeper than the confines of my hair. I am comfortable with the mounds of uncontrollable curls I have atop my head. I no longer want to resemble anyone else, and I am very proud of who I am and where I came from.

I can't wait for Papi to pick me up from the airport.

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