“I don’t want to cut it!” I screamed.

My uncle lifted me by my arms and placed me on the chair. “Will you sit down and let the man do his job?”

“Daddy didn’t say I should cut my own.” I wiped the snot off my nose with the back of my hand, still crying. “He said only the boys. I’m sure.”

It was a Friday afternoon in April. I was six, sitting in the barber’s shop, and being forced to cut my already short hair.

Growing up as an only girl with 3 brothers, my mum thought it was best that I started to cut mine too.

(Now that I’m older, I don’t blame her much. The whole hair thing could be a hassle.)

6 year-old Fayo didn’t like having a low-cut though. I thought it made me look like a boy.

The next day was my youngest brother’s birthday party. So my dad had asked Uncle Tony (who regularly picked my siblings and I from school) to take my brothers to the barber’s shop to get their hair cut.

Uncle Tony assumed that included me.

But I heard my dad loud and clear (because I was there when he gave Uncle Tony the instruction). He said “The boys”, not “The boys and Fayo”.

Uncle Tony (bless him, truly) didn’t believe me. He was convinced my dad had said I was to cut my hair too.

So there we were, at the barber’s shop. My elder brother just had his hair cut, the barber was currently on that of my second brother, which would be followed by my third brother.

After which would be me.

As the barber finished up with my second brother, I started thinking of an escape plan.

Maybe I should run away.

Or I could kick and scream really hard when the barber tried to bring the clipper close to my head.

Or should I bite his ear?

My third brother’s hair was being cut now. I only had a few minutes left to make a decision.

The last time I had my hair cut was about a month before then, and it was already blossoming into a teeny weeny afro.

I wasn’t going to allow Uncle Tony to change that.

And there was a reason I was so adamant about not getting my hair cut:

Right after my mum had first made me cut my hair, a teacher saw me from behind on a Friday (sports day, so everyone was in a shirt and a pair of shorts) and called out, “That boy!”

He meant me.

I wanted to enter the ground.

I didn’t want something that embarrassing to ever happen again. Which is why I was so determined to grow my hair.

And speaking of embarrassing…

A subscriber recently asked me, “How can I find stories to tell?”

To which I answered, “What was the last embarrassing thing that happened to you?”

Embarrassing incidents make the best stories.

Most people prefer to tell the cool stories that paint them in a good light…

But the real gold is in telling the stories that others would be too ashamed to admit.

I know that as you’re reading this, Reader, there’s that one story that’s coming to mind.

That one that still makes you cringe when you’re about to fall asleep at night. A memory you’ve never told anyone, because, “Nobody will ever rate me again if I share this.”

That’s the story you need to tell.

When you share the cringy, embarrassing side of you, people don’t think less of you (like you think they would)...

They exhale (after having a good laugh, of course). They think, “Oh, thank God. It’s not just me.”

And most importantly, they find it easier to connect with you… because who hasn’t had something embarrassing happen to them before?

Think about the creators you love. The ones you feel like you know personally, even though you’ve only interacted with them through a screen.

Chances are, that connection started (or deepened) when they once shared an embarrassing thing that happened to them. A failure they had. A mistake they found it hard to forgive themselves from.

And what that did was give you permission to be more human.

I don’t know who lied to us that people don’t make mistakes. That we don’t have embarrassing moments.

But the ones who are bold enough to share theirs, are those that have lasting impact on others. Not the highlight-reel, picture-perfect people you’re trying to be like.

So here’s what I want you to do, Reader.

That story that came to mind? The one that your younger self would have begged you to never ever tell a soul?

I want you to share it (in your next post/video/blog/podcast/newsletter).

It’s the best hack to forming a closer relationship with your audience, I promise.

And if you need even more story inspiration…

In my upcoming storytelling workshop, I’ll be sharing other (non-embarrassing) ways to get story ideas so that you never run out of stories to tell.

And if you’re thinking, “But Fayo, I don’t want to share personal details about my life on the internet.”

Don't worry, I got you too. I'llalso show you how you can tell relatable stories without sharing more details than you’re comfortable with.

Anyway, back to my story:

Yes, the barber cut my hair. And yes, I looked like a boy.

But thankfully, my mum came through with a pair of super long earrings that I wore for the party, which made it very obvious that I was in fact a girl. That is, if they didn’t notice my fancy pink gown first.

Fayo

PS: If you joined the interest list for the storytelling workshop, I sent you an important email yesterday. Make sure you check it out!

PPS: When I got home and asked my dad, he said, “No I didn’t say you should cut your hair.” Told you, Uncle Tony.

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