A funny thing happened when I first saw Gabby Douglas. I fell in love with her; my five-year-old spit-fire self, my sixteen-year-old dedicated track-star self and my 49 1/2 year-old mother-of-two self all loved her instantly. Gabby grabbed my heart with that winning smile, perfect athleticism and the look in her eye. I was cheering her on as if I were her mother, just like the rest of the country. Then it happened.
The haters. They always show up no matter what you do or how well you do it, and they were coming for Gabby. They couldn’t go after her skill (she was flawless at the start of the Olympics), they couldn’t go after her dedication (she moved from her home, lived with strangers, battled homesickness and put her body through torture to be one of those five girls), so what did they do? They went after her hair.