Red hair can be a blessing or a curse. Historically, we are fiery, we are ill-tempered, we are lustful, or maybe we just look like carrots. At the same time, we are admired; separated out for our great beauty and rarity. My father always wanted a red-haired daughter. When I was born, and he watched the nurse scrub me off, he and the nurse were delighted to find that it wasn't blood staining my scalp, but the beginnings of a mane of red ringlets. Since, all I can remember is the constant comments from older women, all of whom couldn't resist the cacophonous anthem of: "Never change your hair." "So many women would die to have that color." "Women dye their hair to look like that." While well-intended, and certainly well-received by myself, it marks you as different, and it means you are eternally bound in a contract of being both an outsider, and someone who is obliged not to do anything about it. I've been very lucky that I haven't faced bullying or prejudice for my hair, but feeling singled out has not been much better. It doesn't help that I feel in all other ways to be different: a perpetual outsider who cannot possibly fit with the rest of humanity. Recently I've begun to stop ignoring that. I was diagnosed with OCD, and am currently seeking tests to consider Autism Spectrum Disorder as well. This has been nice, and helps me to better understand why I feel so misunderstood by the people around me. My intelligence, responsibility, competence, and all the other things that people praise me for, like my red hair, are things secretly representing something else. My anxiety, intrusive thoughts, fear of disappointing those around me, and my difficulty to interact socially with other people are all traits hiding behind the front of a "gifted" child. I am both beautiful and stoic on the outside, but on the inside it feels like a mask: a way to conceal confusion and dread lying underneath. What one sees on the outside, and how one is perceived, is not the whole story. So many people, for all of history, have been misunderstood or felt like outsiders. They've been singled out for their appearance, their race, their sex, or personality. I don't want that to continue. Nobody should feel scared to defy the perceptions that other people have of them. It's okay to change, and it's okay to make other people understand that the image of you they've constructed is not the full picture. I read once in a book about 20th century violence at the US-Mexico border, an anecdote from the author about her experience doing research for the book at a local archive. In it, she found a tape recording of a man recounting his experiences with this violence, and she was told by the archivist that the story wasn't important. As someone who wants to be an archivist myself, I was stunned. How can we, as stewards of history, deny someone's truth. The beauty of historic preservation is precisely to see how people truly viewed themselves, and all the ups and downs of their life. As I am more and more able to come into my own, less bound by the expectations of society, I hope to be able to do the same for people who never had the chance to do so themselves. To preserve and present the real people of the past would be the honor of my life, and in turn would help me present my authentic self, red hair and all.