Looking back, I can see how I made everyday objects extraordinary. I was eight years of age and getting ready for school; my mom had already left for work, trusting I could handle the task. With Scooby Doo in the background, I began my ascent to my mother’s closet, choosing a black and white striped suit most appropriate for a night on the town, but today I would illustrate how casual chic it was, and wow, a third-grade class. Next, I went to the bathroom mirror with all my barrettes in tow and clipped them one at a time until both sides of my hair had an eclectic blend of yellow butterflies, purple ribbons, and pink hearts. The hairdo was stunning and practical, as it flattened my curls and added an element of wonder. I walked the block to school, and to my amazement, all the kids laughed at me. This event began my creative block; how could I have been so misunderstood by my peers? My mother would spend the next ten years investigating her wardrobe for little hands that craved sophistication, acceptance, and a creative license. Over the years, I learned to tame my eccentric style, balancing neutral colors with a wild personality. I was a closet creative, dreaming of how I would express myself if the world understood my art.
