The speaker wishes to be a snail, able to pull back into a shell whenever the world feels unsafe. The trouble began with a compliment. Some people said her hair looked nice, then laughed at it a moment later, and rumors followed while she was out of sight. Praise that turns out to be fake can hurt more than an open insult, because it makes you doubt every kind word afterward.
The mood is tired, anxious, and quietly sad. The short lines and the repeated "Hiding" and "In my" make the shell feel small and sealed, almost like a held breath. Then the poem turns: "But I can't hide forever." The speaker knows she has to go back out and face people. The final line repeats the earlier phrase, "The people who liked my hair," but now it sounds bitter and heavy. What once seemed like a compliment has become a reason to be afraid.