When Your Child Worries Classmates Will Laugh At Their Hair: A Teacher’s Perspective
The bell for morning drop-off just finished ringing when Mia hovered in my 3rd grade classroom doorway, twisting the end of one braid around her index finger so hard her knuckle turned white. Her mom squeezed her shoulder and mouthed “can we chat later?” before stepping out to join the other parents leaving. I knelt down to eye level, the scuffed toe of my sneaker hitting the edge of a lost tooth box someone had left by the door, and asked what was on her mind. She stared at the scuff for a second before whispering, “Will my darling basic classmates laugh at my hair?”
I blinked for a second before I connected the dots. I’d met Mia’s 13-year-old sister at back-to-school night, who’d been scrolling TikTok while her mom talked to me, peppering every popular girl at her own middle school with that word “basic.” Mia had picked it up, added “darling” because that’s what she calls her grandma’s bridge friends, and that was that. This was the worry she’d turned over every night for three days, her mom told me later, ever since she’d come home from the salon with 12 waist-length knotless braids strung with pink and clear beads at the ends.
For years, Mia had gotten her hair straightened at the discount walk-in place near our neighborhood grocery store, because that’s what fit her mom’s work schedule and budget. But her aunt had gotten a new job, gifted her the braids for her 8th birthday, and suddenly everything was different. Mia had been so excited the night before, taking selfies in the mirror for her aunt, but by morning the excitement had curdled into that tight, quiet worry I see so often in third grade. This is the age when kids stop caring only what their parents think, and start wondering what everyone else will notice. She pulled her gray hoodie up over her head as we walked to the morning meeting rug, and kept it pulled up even when I reminded her the heater was cranked higher than usual this week.
I was watching the kids play four square at recess 20 minutes later when I saw three of the most popular girls in class wander over to where Mia was sitting on the bench, still hooded up. My first instinct was to stand up, walk over, be ready to step in if someone said something rude. Before I could move, one of the girls reached out and tapped the end of a braid that had slipped out of the hood. “Are those beads?” she asked. Mia pulled the hood down slow, and nodded. By the end of recess, all three girls were leaning in, twisting the beads between their fingers, asking how much it cost and how long it took. No one laughed. But when I walked over to check in, Mia was still smiling that tight, polite smile she uses when she’s not relaxed. The worry didn’t just disappear because no one was mean.
That’s the thing I wish more parents and new teachers understood: worry about how you look doesn’t go away just because no one teases you. The fear is already real, even before anyone says a word. My first instinct when Mia asked me that question was to say “Of course not, your hair looks beautiful, everyone will love it.” But I caught myself, because that’s the worst thing you can say. It doesn’t just dismiss her worry, it tells her she shouldn’t feel what she’s feeling. Instead, I said, “That’s such a scary thing to wonder, isn’t it? It makes total sense to worry about that.” She nodded, hard, and that was enough to get her to sit down for morning meeting.
Instead of making a big deal out of it – I’ve seen too many teachers call out a kid’s difference in front of the whole class for a “celebrate our differences” chat, which just shoves the kid into the spotlight they’re already scared of – I did a small thing. When it was my turn to share that day (we do 1 minute of teacher share every morning to model opening up), I pulled down my sock to show the kids the small sunflower tattoo I’d gotten on my ankle over the weekend. I told them, “I was so worried all of you would think this is dumb, so I wore long socks all day yesterday even though it was 80 degrees out. It feels scary to try something new that everyone can see, right?” Half a dozen kids nodded. A boy said he’d worried about his new glasses all last week. No one mentioned Mia, but I saw her peek out from her hood and nod too.
That’s the concrete trick I tell parents now, when they email me about their kid worrying about a new haircut, new braces, glasses, anything. First, don’t dismiss the worry. Instead of “you look great, stop worrying,” say “That makes sense to feel nervous. Trying something new that everyone sees is scary.” Second, don’t force them to put it all out there if they don’t want to. If they want to wear a hood for two days, let them wear a hood. If they want to pull their hat low on the first day of new glasses, that’s fine. They get to set the pace. Third, don’t make them the center of a big lesson to “teach kindness.” Normalize the worry by talking about your own small, silly worries about how you look. It takes the pressure off them, and lets other kids open up too, without singling anyone out.
Two weeks later, Mia still has the braids. A couple beads have fallen off, and she stopped wearing the hood after the second day. Last Monday, she came up to my desk after lunch and said that Lila, one of the girls who’d asked about the beads first, had said they were “too sparkly.” Mia just shrugged, and told me “I like them anyway. She can think what she wants.” She didn’t cry, she didn’t get upset, she just wanted to tell me. That’s way better than any perfect resolution I could have planned.
I still think about that line, “Will my darling basic classmates laugh at my hair?” It’s such a perfect kid question, all mixed up with half-learned words and big, new feelings. Worrying about what other people think doesn’t go away when you grow up, after all. I still get nervous before I wear a new dress to a staff meeting. The best we can do is not tell kids their worries are silly, and let them take it one day at a time. Right now, Mia’s already talking about what color beads she wants for her next set, so that’s good enough for me.
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