Reasons to Shave My Head

Last weekend, I put my trust in my fellow human being. These things happen when you are not a part of the dominant culture…

About a year ago I decided to commit an act of symbolic violence (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Symbolic_violence) and chemically – and permanently -straighten my hair. I’d like to say that I did it for a change in my look, or to experiment with something new. However, I can’t ignore that I am exposed to - and conditioned by -the societal preferences for Eurocentric beauty. So despite my political beliefs, despite my closest friends and families’ political beliefs (and objections), and despite my knowledge of how unhealthy and dangerous hair relaxer is for the body, I decided to give in to The Man and do the white girl thing…as if I’m not “white” enough already.

So here I am now, in Santiago, where there are very few Afro-Americans, and very few people who look qualified to put such harsh chemicals on and around my scalp. Luckily, I brought the horrible and dangerous hair-straightening products with me to Chile, so the only challenge was finding someone who could help me fry the roots of my hair when they’d grown long enough (about every 6-8 weeks). I considered asking my host mother to help me out. She dyes her own hair, which is a similar process, but not quite as dangerous. I considered doing it myself, but I don’t trust myself to correctly apply relaxer, especially to the back of my head. Finally, I considered asking a random black woman on the street. And so I did.

A few weeks ago, as I walked through the Santiago streets, I saw a young black woman with long braided hair. I got up the courage to ask her who’d done her braids and if that person could relax her as well. She was very nice and gave me both her own number and the number of the woman who’d done her hair. She said that if her hairdresser, Cruz, couldn’t do it for me, that she would do her best to help me out. I was also quite excited when I found out that Mode is from the same city that my grandmother lives in back in Colombia.

That night, I called Cruz and made an appointment.

Last weekend, Cruz met me at the subway stop near her apartment and greeted me with a big hug and kiss. I could tell that she was Colombian by her warmth and her accent. When we arrived at her house, I met her children, and two friends who were also from Colombia. As Cruz combed my hair, I sat in her small living room with her and her family. Although they spoke a fast and vulgar Spanish that I never heard my mom speak, the Colombian accent made me feel at home. When I asked if they liked Chile, they told me that they appreciate Chile for the work and living opportunities, but that they much prefer their own country. I then began to remember the unbearable poverty that I only had to witness on my short trips to Colombia.
It was fascinating to see Chile from a black immigrant perspective, to see Colombia from a working poor perspective, to see the mystified look on their faces when I said I was from the US, and to see myself somewhere in the middle of all of these “identities,” unable to reconcile exactly why they separated us, and why they brought us together. And on top of all that, chemicals were burning through my hair and scalp. For a student of culture, the whole experience was a bit of beautiful chaos.
We continued the rest of the day talking about the great food is in Colombia, American music lyrics, Afro-Colombian and Peruvian immigrants in Chile, family, and more. Mostly, they talked among themselves as I tried to follow. By the end, I’d had lunch with Cruz and her daughters, and I had given Cruz’s daughter some of my hair products (though I cringed to see a little black girl get so excited about putting chemicals in her hair, I certainly understood her desire to “soften” her thick texture. I also had to wonder how her own psyche has been affected by Eurocentric ideals of beauty, for I don’t have the experience to make that judgment). I’d also been officially invited back whenever I wanted.
I think I’ll be back. If not to fry my hair, to be comforted by the loving voices of a people that I’ve never been enough a part of.