There was a time when a single piece of fabric held my identity together. A scarf—long, soft, and seemingly normal—served as my shield, my disguise, and my fantasy. As a teenager, I struggled with acne, and not the mild kind that could be ignored. These pimples took center stage on my forehead, red, swollen, and impossible to miss. Everytime I looked in the mirror, they stared back at me, a constant reminder of puberty's cruelty. So I did the best I could: I wrapped my scarf around my head, tugging it low enough to conceal the evidence almost to my eyebrows. It wasn't just about hiding the pimples; it was about hiding how they made me feel. If I could hide my forehead, I might be able to hide my self-consciousness, embarrassment, and constant awareness of how I looked.

Initially, the scarf was solely functional—a necessary disguise. I was not trying to make a statement or follow a trend; all I wanted was to feel normal. However, as time passed, I discovered that tying it became second nature, a ritual of self-preservation. I'd wrap it carefully, making sure no part of my forehead peeked out. The fabric felt secure, like a shield between me and the world's judgement. I could stroll into a room without being concerned about who was staring at my pimples. The scarf did the job for me, hiding not just my skin but also the insecurity that came with it. And because the scarf was lengthy, it would trail down my back shifting whenever I moved. I didn’t realize it at first, but this was when it started to become more than just a cover-up—it became something else entirely.

It was around this time that Brazilian hair had begun to dominate beauty conversations. Before then, most girls had to settle for relaxed hair, braids, or whatever their parents allowed, but Brazilian hair was different. It was sleek, long (whatever length works for you), and effortless— framing the face in a way that felt expensive. It wasn’t just hair; it was a statement, a symbol of beauty and femininity. My elder sister had one, a thick, flowing weave that cascaded down her back. She would stand in front of the mirror and run her fingers through it, flipping it slightly, letting it fall perfectly back into place. It was effortless, and I envied that ease, that casual display of beauty that I wasn’t allowed to have. These days, of course, we know there are far better types of human hair—fuller, silkier, even more natural-looking options—but back then, in the early 2010s, even up to 2011, Brazilian hair was everything. It came in bulk, it was what was accessible, and it was what every girl who wanted to feel grown and beautiful aspired to own.

But Daddy had made it clear that secondary school was for studying, not for distractions. No elaborate hairstyles, wigs, or undue vanity. My hair had to remain simple, plain, and cut low. I wasn't even allowed to wear wigs. But I wanted that feeling, the swish of long hair down my back.

My elder sister, who was already in university, had the freedom to style her hair however she wanted, including wearing wigs and experimenting with different trends. My father had promised I could do the same but only after secondary school. Until then, I was expected to concentrate on my schoolwork. It felt like an eternity. In SSS1, I was still stuck in the waiting phase, longing for the freedom that university promised and naively believing that adulthood would be all about choices with no responsibilities. What an unknowing wish to grow up, unaware that with it would come a different kind of longing—but that's a story for another day. This is about my scarf.

And then, one day, I realized that my scarf—the same one I used to cover my forehead—already gave me the illusion of hair—like, how? As if this floppy piece of cloth could fool anyone! But there I was, totally convinced. I'd stand in front of the mirror, tilting my head like my sister and sliding my fingers down the ends like it was some lovely, flowing Brazilian bundle. Delulu mode at its full potential. It was the epitome of juvenile folly, and honestly? I was enjoying every moment. I wasn't just a girl hiding her acne anymore; I was a girl with hair, someone who could imagine herself as beautiful, even if only in secret.

The scarf had transformed from a necessity to something else—something that blurred the line between insecurity and fantasy. I wore it not because I had to, but because it filled a void in my life. It allowed me to exist in two different realities at the same time: one in which I was a self-conscious teenager hiding behind fabric, and another in which I was transformed into someone who had control over how she was seen. It was no longer about pimples anymore; it was about the comfort of having something that made me feel like I belonged. 

Looking back, I wonder how many other girls had their own versions of the scarf. The thing they used to cover, to compensate, to create the illusion of having what they lacked. Teenage years are ruthless, and insecurities manifest in strange ways. Some girls wore their mother’s heels around the house, wobbling in them like baby deer, imagining the power that came with being grown. And some of us, the ones that were stuck in the in-between, draped scarves down our backs, letting them substitute for the luxury we weren’t yet permitted to own. The scarf wasn’t just a covering—it was a placeholder for the future, for the person I was waiting to become. The problem isn’t just that I felt insecure—it’s that I believed I had to hide it. That if I just covered, masked, or pretended well enough, I could pass through unnoticed, or better yet, accepted.

The truth is that many of us never truly grow out of those feelings. Insecurity does not have a specific age. Grown women still contour their noses into shapes they like better, edit their photos before posting, and hide their natural hair under wigs, not just for convenience but also for confidence. The scarf may have been my teenage coping mechanism, but its spirit still persists in many forms. The difference is that, as adults, we call it self-care, self-expression, or simply preference. But, deep down, isn't it the same? The desire to tweak, enhance, or conceal?

But, even as I acknowledge this, I wonder if the younger version of myself would have done anything differently if she knew. If I could go back and tell her that the pimples on her forehead weren't the center of everyone's attention, would she have believed me? Would she have dared to walk into a room with her forehead bare? Probably not. And I don't blame her. Teenage self-esteem is fragile, built on shaky ground and shaped by whispers, glances, and the silent rules of beauty that no one officially states but everyone follows. Sometimes, survival means doing whatever makes you feel safe, even if it's simply wrapping a scarf around your insecurities and pretending they aren't there.

What I find most ironic is that, at some point, the scarf became less about insecurity and more about attachment. Even when my forehead cleared, I still found myself reaching for it, tying it around my head out of habit. It had become part of my identity, part of the way I moved through the world. I didn’t need it anymore, but I wasn’t quite ready to let it go. And maybe that’s the thing about the things we use to shield ourselves—they become familiar, comfortable, almost like a second skin. Letting go isn’t just about confidence; it’s about unlearning the idea that we needed covering in the first place.

I no longer wear scarves like that, at least not for the same reasons. I have learned how to exist without hiding. But I still remember that girl—the one who wrapped herself in fabric, who turned a necessity into a fantasy, and used a scarf to navigate the harsh landscape of girlhood. I think about how common her experience was, and how many girls still look in the mirror and wish they could change something, anything. And I wish I could tell them it gets easier, that one day they'll laugh at the things they once worried about. But the truth is, self-acceptance is a slow, uneven journey.

Maybe the real lesson isn't that we should stop covering up—maybe it's just that we should understand why we're doing it. Are we expressing ourselves or hiding? Are we protecting ourselves or avoiding something? The answer isn't always obvious, and may it doesn’t  have to be. Perhaps we just need to give ourselves grace for the things we needed to get through certain phases. Because, at the end of the day, a scarf is just a scarf—until it’s so much more.