I used to play with Barbies a lot when I was little. No wonder I wanted to be blonde.
I smiled at my reflection. Not because of my morena skin. Not because of my brown eyes, or even because I was looking at the face of a child with a life of opportunity ahead. It was because at that time of day, if I used a bit of imagination, the light from Costa Rica’s morning sun made my dark, curly hair glow a golden yellow. I would go into daydreams of myself: blonde with bright blue eyes and a perfectly pink smile, driving off in a matching magenta convertible with the most popular boy in the class.