By Keila Cruz

Share:

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.