Witch Hair
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Hair is a huge part of Dominican culture; it is intermingled with unrealistic and suffocating beauty standards. This is a rebellion against standards which categorize textured hair as “pelo malo” (bad hair).
I scour the store aisles for gels, hair potions, and spells, my lungs throbbing for a way out of this Bell Jar when I feel a tap On my shoulder it’s a young lady sporting a real honest smile, she says: ‘Excuse me Miss I don’t mean to disturb your shopping It’s just your hair is BEAUTIFUL. Beautiful? Polite smile “Oh Thank you.” Beautiful. My fingers step down dead feathers weighing at my side Like a heavy conscience, my hair is straightened today. I wonder, would she still think it beautiful in its wilderness, if she touched the lion’s mane that roars beneath heat and press would she still think it’s beautiful? if she were my mirror in the morning, if she had met me in the rain, if she could see me she might not think I’m so Beautiful. I resume my meticulous marathon down an ingredient list whose contents are a foreign language – eyes lost in aisles of ten-in-ones, Raved about cures, and chemicals gift wrapped In golden ribbon words, all guaranteeing “pin-straight” hair, they tempt me – for I’ve always floated between two lands – tresses not, frisky enough to be Dominican, not reserved enough to be beautiful. I pick up a rose-colored bottle, give it a whiff – lilies with a side of chemical remind me of Mami, late nights afterwork would wash and dry my pajòn (poofy hair), I remember the mirror all tinged, a dark-brown cloud suspended around me by some strange sorcery. Mami lived paycheck to paycheck – she couldn’t afford to buy one of those fancy ‘ceramic’ flat irons, So she’d have me lay on the bed, back side down, and ironed the night away on my strands like a pair of corduroy pants. Only after she’d finish arms all worn out – was it Beautiful. There was the time I tried to undo years of domestication, bought some curl creams and wore my waves to church confidently. “You like my hair?”, I asked my neighbor but she said I looked like a witch, a witch. “Save up for a flat iron”, she said then it’ll be beautiful. Now I’m face to face with a million versions of that neighbor, now I say: No thanks! I’ll be a witch and cease this search for magic potions that imprison the self, it longs to break free only when it is free, it is
Process
“I want you to write a poem about your Hair” my professor said. At first, the topic felt uncomfortably broad, “should I write about my own hair or someone else’s?” I debated in my head. However, as I meditated on my relationship to my own hair, I noticed that I’ve always styled my hair to please others, I’ve always kept it “under control” so that it did not draw too much attention, so that I’d meet the “gold standard” of Dominican culture… straight hair. I decided to write about the increasing pressure I experienced from my culture which communicated that only straight hair was beautiful and that painted my poofy to be “Witch Hair”. This poem documents my journey toward embracing my naturally wavy hair and through it I hope to encourage individuals to break free from established beauty standards.
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Keila Cruz
Keila Cruz is a writer and psychology enthusiast working toward becoming an art therapist. Her journey with literature dates back to her public education years, where a fervent passion for storytelling first took root as found joy in writing short stories. As Keila matured, she began to realize the transformative power of creative expression through poetry and aims to share the healing power of writing with the world. Keila's poetry and writing reflects on love, family, and cultural identity as a Dominican immigrant. Keila is most excited to grow as a writer as she works with her GWN mentor.