In addition to these internal feelings of despair and disinterest in past hobbies and activities, I was also battling with major self-esteem and negative self-image issues.
A few years earlier, I managed to transition from a cute eight-year-old boy with dirty blonde hair to a pudgy preteen with a boring, brown mop of hair. My dad was cutting my hair at that point, and I still think to this day that he received his training from Jim Carrey’s barber in Dumb and Dumber. While he didn’t quite stick a bowl on my head, the end result was not too far off. On top of it all, he managed to cut my bangs on a diagonal, which isn’t a super trendy look.
By the time I entered my teenage years and approached sophomore year, I decided that I didn’t want to be known as a hefty kid. I ended up losing a fair amount of weight and going to the other end of the spectrum. Instead of being overweight, I looked gaunt and skinny. I still had the haircuts courtesy of dad, so I was no real looker.
High school is a savage time to not look like you fit in, and I was honestly picked on for my haircut and body shape repeatedly. Between this insecurity in how I looked and my inner turmoil, I realized one thing:
I hated myself, inside and out.
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