The “Wednesday Blow-Out Special for $20” at my local Dominican salon fed an addiction that I didn’t even know I had. It was a brisk morning on December 23rd, 2015, and as I followed my mom to the car from the apartment, the crisp winter wind slapped me across my face. I was 12 years old, sitting in the passenger seat fighting the urge to fall asleep because my mom and I woke up bright and early to be the first ones in the salon. December 24th is a very special occasion and on special occasions, we straighten our frizzy, nappy, and messy hair in my family. December 24th, also known as noche buena, is when my family, along with many other Hispanic families celebrate Christmas. It’s almost like a tradition to get my scalp burned every time I need to look professional or nice for an event.

     As I walked into the salon, all eyes turned to me and my heart sunk to my stomach. This was the first time I had ever walked out of the house with my natural hair out. My curly roots looked more like cooked spaghetti and my ends were permanently straight from all the heat damage from the past years. All the hairdressers with their shiny and smooth blow-dried hair, turn and begin to judge me.

      “¡Ay mija, tu pareses una bruja! Ven, sientate para arreglarte ese pajon,” says one of the hairdressers. “Oh girl, you look like a witch! Come and sit down so I can fix that mess”. I take the comment with a grain of salt, and I sat down ready to be transformed. As she aggressively dragged her fingers through my hair, I winced back-to-back, but it seemed like she didn’t even notice. It’s like she didn’t remember that I am tender headed even though I had been getting my hair done by her for years now. After countless hours of having my scalp played with and burned to the extreme, my hair was finally back to normal. Everyone in the salon looked at me as though they have seen an angel.

      “Look! Doesn’t she look so much better with her hair straightened?” says the hairdresser as she spun my chair around to face the sudden audience that formed around me.

     “Oh, my goodness, she does look a lot better! You should keep your hair like this more often; you look ridiculous with your natural hair out.” says another hairdresser from the other side of the salon. Being forced to straighten my hair for special occasions, slowly shifted to straightening my hair weekly. I only ever felt pretty when my hair was straightened, but little did I know this reality would change.

     I’m 14 years old and it is mid-September of 2018. As I was having a hard time adjusting to a new school, I experienced a direct microaggression from a white person for the first time. One random Tuesday afternoon, as I was having lunch with my only friend at the time, I felt someone rake their fingers through my ponytail from behind me and ask me, “is this a weave?”. I turned around with a look of bewilderment and replied with a stern “no”. She proceeded to look at me with a confused look on her face as if I had just said something that doesn’t make sense. To this day, I have no idea why she thought my hair was fake. Maybe it was because she had never seen a black girl with longer hair than her, yet, she had no right to touch me like an animal at a petting zoo. All I know is that I had never contemplated my existence so much and felt so out of place in my life than in that moment. For the first time ever, I was in a space where the majority of the people look nothing like me. I went from going to a public school with black and brown kids that look like me to being one of 7 girls of color in my class. At this point in life, I was still straightening my hair weekly, yet this time I did it in attempt to fit in with all the white girls with beautiful straight and healthy hair.

…

     It’s April of 2018 and I was sitting in the lobby of the salon, patiently waiting for my mom to finish getting her hair done. The layering noise of numerous blow dryers and Dominican women gossiping made it difficult for me to listen to the Bachata Mix blasting out of the tv over the receptionist desk. That week, I had made the decision to not get my hair straightened but instead to leave my natural hair out. Being 15 at the time, I was extremely proud that I was finally making decisions for myself. I continued to get weird looks the more I wore my natural hair out but none of that mattered to me anymore. I was beginning to feel more confident with my hair in its natural state. The natural hair movement on social media was what finally pushed me to go natural. It was a way for me to represent my identity as an Afro-Latina. After doing a ton of research on ways to repair curly hair, the only solution was getting a big chop and starting my hair growth journey all over again. When I told my family this, they took it very personally and did not think it was a good idea to chop all of my damaged hair. These were the same people who had western beauty standards engraved in their minds and weren’t proud of their own Afro-Latinidad.

…

      After two years of growing my hair and refusing to get it straightened, I finally did it! I got my first professional curly haircut. As I walked into the salon, all I saw were beautiful afros, pineapple buns, frizzy and shiny curls. It was a safe space that I’d never been a part of before. As I waited for my stylist, a young girl with a gorgeous afro turned to me and complimented my hair, yet, I was jealous of her perfectly defined 3b/3c curls. She told me that she had been natural all her life and I wished I had that option when I was younger. As I walked away, she reminded me to love myself and my hair unconditionally and that all good things take patience and time.

As I sat in the chair, my body began to tense. My hairstylist realized I was nervous, so she offered me a snack and water and told me that everything would be okay. She turned my chair away from the mirror so that the result was a surprise. My body began to sink into the seat, and I trusted her. This was the first time in a long time I had let someone touch my hair, but this time I knew I wasn’t going to get insulted. Two hours later, when my stylist turned my chair around, I saw rays of sunshine behind me. I was amazed. I had never thought that my hair would go from one curl pattern to another. I left the salon feeling the most empowered I’ve ever been. The countless compliments increased my confidence to the point where no one could tell me that my curls didn't look good. This haircut was a representation of removing the colorist narratives that were placed on me by my family.

      Now, at almost 20 years old and a sophomore in college, I use my hair as a form of expressing my identity as an Afro-Latina and a way to inspire young Latinas to reject colorist narratives that are placed on them by the Latinx community. The lack of Afro-Latino representation in social media made me feel like a black sheep in a herd. I am now empowered to voice my own opinions and advocate for those who are underrepresented. I realized that it is okay to be selfish and do things for myself. Watching my cousins go natural after me, emphasized how much my actions impact others and it provided me with a sense of purpose. I was leading by example without knowing I was capable of this. Everywhere I go, so many people compliment my hair, even my own family members that used to bash me for going natural. As I walk by crowded Dominican salons, I feel proud knowing that I realized at a young age that the beauty of going natural is worth so much more than a $20 special.