The Curly Cue

In the past few years, I've been traveling a lot, and one thing to note is that in many places outside of the United States, the big "You guys all looks alike" box is still the norm. In Poland, schoolchildren on a field trip made slanty-eyed faces at me as I walked past them. In Cuba, they called me Jackie Chan; one kid threw a rock at my head. In Belgium, I was billed for a Japanese person's hotel room -- the manager apologized and explained that it was an honest mistake, because we all look the same.

All of these things made for one very angry Asian. That big box is depressingly deep, narrow and hard to climb out of. For that reason, today, I've found that it's more comfortable for me to be misidentified as multiracial or Latino than it is to be labeled entirely Asian. Not only do fewer people throw things at my head, but my world feels as though it has more flexibility. I've gotten comfortable being unique. My sister thinks the celebrity I most resemble is New York Yankee Bernie Williams. I get John Legend a lot, too. Both comparisons feel much less reductive, more mysterious and ripe with possibilities than arguing over a Japanese man's hotel bill.

If we're being honest, cutting my hair short would probably put an end to all the confusion. But then I'd just blend in; I wouldn't be noticed as much. And if I'd cut my hair, I would have never landed my first date out of college.

In 2001, when I lived in my first apartment, I used to pass a movie theater on my way to work every day. At a party a few months after I moved in, this cute, arty girl with black-dyed hair came up to me and said, "You're that guy who walks past the movie theater every morning."

It turned out she worked there; she saw me every day. So how did she remember me out of hundreds of other passersby?

Just as back in kindergarten, I knew instantly.

It was the hair.

Kevin Sintumuang is an associate editor at GQ Magazine. He lives in New York City.