Beauty—The self hated struggle

Back of 2004 or ‘05, for one of my Communication Studies courses, I chose to write a paper on how Western media affect foreign thinkers. The topic was on leg extension plastic surgery.

If you must know, the U.S. exports more media information than it imports.

I had happened into a piece about Asian women who had submitted themselves to dangerous leg surgery that allowed them to become some inches taller. I never turned in the work—the bulk of my research was lost on my forgotten jump drive, and to this day my skin crawls at the thought of such a horrible surgery.

Surgeons brake the leg bone and cast the leg in a metal cage, this allows the bone tissue to renew and infuse.  Though the link is much weaker. 

Why do people summit to this surgery? More than aesthetic beauty, they want to land coveted jobs. From my research, I found that Asian airlines not only have the mandated weight, but also, a height requirement—to please their Western customers.  To top it off popular media figures submit to surgeries that give man the Western man square jaws, and women to have have foldable eye lids.  Such craziness, right?

I chose the topic because of my personal history and the aesthetic Western beauty.  I have what is called “un cabello crespo,” inherited from my father.  My mother kept my hair in a really short cut because she didn’t know how to deal with my “bad” hair. 

At the tender age, when youth becomes aware of the world and what society holds as beauty, I informed my mother that I wanted my hair long and relaxed.  I wanted the straight flow-y hair, to run my fingers through slick hair and touch my scalp.  That was the beginning of my self-struggle. 

A part of me wanted, and submitted to peer pressure, to chemically treat my hair. My other self, hated the ordeal and avoided it at all cost.  It hurt me more than gave me pleasure. I was laughed at for my complains at the pains I felt.  I once almost lost an eye when the lady refused to listen to my demand to rinse the chemical off.  I tried to stand up and the goo fell on my eye (Thank goodness I was crying and had closed my eye).  She hit me.  I cried more and refused to speak to her ever again.  When my hair dried, she saw the damage she caused on my scalp.  

The struggle so continued until I went to college.  I never learned to care for my natural hair texture.  The only option said to me was to treat it.  I passed my time with horribly damage hair, in between bruised scalp.  Yes, I ranted and screamed through home forcing, professional hands and even the so called delicate children lines. 

I found my freedom in college.  My undergraduate years passed by with my hair jailed under a scarf and the glorious winter hat.  When I let it out, it was like a ransacked house that had been burned, after a tornado tore it up.  But, I was happy.

My friends tried to braid my hair, I tried to get it blow dried, but the pain I felt was not worth the end result.  One day, I followed a friend to an African American salon that respected my decision, knew how to handle my hair and cut it all off.  It was the summer of 2003. It was the happiest of my life.

I may still be teased as having a bird’s nest or a Brillo pad on top of my head; I just have to remember that my extremely fine and cotton-like-thickness of curly hair is part of who I am.  It took me a while to figure this out.  I am happy that I have.

I thank the women who post valuable hair care information on the internet and the advice I receive from women on the street who enjoy their natural hair styles.

Now that I am educated and equipped with strong hair self-esteem, I know that one day, I will stop thinking of salons as the worst place to be.