Photos by: Ambar Mejia
When you’re young, few things are more uncomfortable than being different. And I don’t mean different because you’re the fastest at jump rope, or because you can do a cartwheel better than anyone else.
I mean the kind of different where you wonder why your ears protrude way beyond your classmates’.
When you’re young, normality is pretty much the goal.
In a school where there were maybe about five non-Hispanic children, I wondered why my hair didn’t look like any of the other kids’. Every morning I had to wake up earlier than my half-sisters to have my hair tugged on and slathered with petroleum jelly.
It was confusing when I started to cry after someone told me I had black-people hair. I certainly didn’t define myself as black; I am Hispanic.
I went home with tears in my eyes, only to have my father quickly rush me to the nearest salon for a relaxer.
I very much remember my father bursting into a salon and, with all his charisma, he said, “Who here knows how to tame bad hair?”
That day, my mane was altered with rancid, ‘creamy crack’ (as so many naturals affectionately call the relaxer cream). Then it was subjected to four hours of hot rollers and blow-drying — I have a lot of hair.
Every few months, as I sat through the same process, my father told me how it was my duty as a female to look “pretty.”
My classmates had made it quite clear that I was different, and that I had “black” hair; and my father had essentially assured me that it was a bad thing.
It wasn’t until January 2012 that I finally got fed up with my damaged hair. My once ultra-curly, thick hair barely made a kink anymore. It was thin and constantly shedding.
For the first time in 10 years, I put away my blow dryer and flat iron for good.
Nothing helped me love my hair like understanding why it works the way it does. I was hooked to natural-hair-care blogs.
I started off by transitioning, using rollers to try to match the waves that were growing in. After a while of seeing all these beautiful naturals with their big, in-your-face hair, however, I realized that sporting my damaged hair definitely didn’t look any better than just chopping it off.
I finally cut off my relaxed hair on June 1, 2012.
I remember fighting with the stylist. She insisted I’d look awful and refused to cut all the straight/damaged hair off.
She left a bit, and it looked awkward. My hair was terrible.
Sometimes I’d look at myself and wonder what on earth I had done to myself, but most of the time I was just happy I had done it. My hair felt beyond damaged for the longest time, but I finally look in the mirror and am happy with what I see.
Lately, even when the curls don’t want to cooperate, I can usually get away with just working some weather-proofing product and picking my hair out into a fro (which I hope will get obnoxiously large soon), and I rock it out.
Nothing has felt more liberating than shaking out my hair, and knowing I am one step closer to embracing myself.
Call it kinky, call it nappy, or call it textured — I absolutely love it! Even my family, who had always warned me against going natural, tells me it looks beautiful.
It is a sad and confusing thing to have all those you crave acceptance from shun who you are naturally — especially when you’re young and trying to find your place in the world.
This blog is dedicated to all the beautiful women who aren’t afraid to be different. The women who are changing the way society views afro hair so that maybe one day that little girl sporting those cute Afro puffs to school doesn’t feel like she has to hide her beauty and her rich heritage.
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