With each tug on a strand of
my hair, my confidence grew. The
sizzle of the flat iron slowly trans-
formed my frizzy, untamable curls,
filling me with joy as I felt like I
was enhancing my beauty. I would
cringe as I saw my natural hair
make a reappearance after a show-
er. I’d quickly dry myself off, ever
rushing to the glorious moment I
could straighten it again. The cycle
continued throughout middle and
high school.
I grew up watching both Bol-
lywood and Hollywood movies
and wished my hair sat as uniform
and straight as the women on the
screen. My hair is thick, coarse and
a mix between curly and wavy. I
never knew how to classify it on the
thousands of online quizzes I would
take to identify my hair pattern. It
is unique, but not in a way I would
like. I would always spritz water in
my hair before leaving the house
in an attempt to smooth it down
because it was frizzy and “hard on
the eyes.” As I grew older, I found
that many of my Desi friends felt
the same. What I realized is that
Bollywood does not accurately rep-
resent the hair (or skin color, among
other things) of South Asians.
They produce content that pres-
ents Desis as closely as possible to
Eurocentric models: straight hair,
fair skin and thin bodies. This way,
Desis fit into the Western ideal of
neat, put together and professional,
contrary to how we are represented
in America.
When I discovered my abil-
ity to straighten my hair in sev-
enth grade, it was like finding gold.
People take me more seriously
when my hair is straight, which I’m
guessing is because it looks more
“American.” People compliment
me noticeably more, I get told to
“do my hair like this more often,”
and sometimes, people are even
kinder to me. In a way, I feel like
I’m treated more human. In West-
ern culture and through colonialist
practices, straight, uniform hair is
the ideal look. These notions reit-
erate harmful racist notions which
perpetuate Black and Brown indi-
viduals as physically unattractive,
unprofessional and disruptive.
These stereotypes and expecta-
tions are widely accepted in soci-
ety and are the reason for most of
my insecurities regarding my hair
growing up. My hair has been one
of my biggest insecurities since
I was young. Its coarseness, the
bushiness of my eyebrows, the
“unladylike” hair that grew on
my arms: These were all evident
perceived flaws that you could
not miss when you looked at me. I
attended a predominantly white
elementary and middle school
growing up, so I was acutely aware
of how my hair, among many other
things, made me visibly different.
I was never able to forget how the
scent of my hair stood out when
I had layered coconut oil in it the
night before, how my eyebrows
took up my whole forehead or how
I had to shave my arms before pool
birthday parties because the other
girls “did not want lice.” Since the
age of six, I would stress over being
able to tie a bun in the very spe-
cific way we were required to for
our performance for months lead-
ing up to my annual ballet recital.
Straightening my hair made it more
manageable and more like what it
is conventionally supposed to look
like. Finally, I was able to tame one
of the most noticeable Desi parts of
my appearance.
I used to go to local Indian hair-
dressers when I was younger, but
once I turned 16, I started going
to chain salons with mostly white
hairdressers. They always lathered
my hair with luxurious shampoos
that I’d never used growing up and
told me they would blow my hair
out in the way I always wanted it
to be done. I was finally proud of
where I got my haircuts because, in
my mind, these salons were repre-
sentative of everything I intended
my hair to be.
But I was always met with hyp-
ocritical comments once it actu-
ally came time to do the blowouts I
waited so eagerly for. “Which side
of the family gave you this curse?”
one hairdresser asked me as she
picked up my half-dried hair only
seconds after expressing her jeal-
ousy at the preciseness of my eye-
brows. This haircut happened five
years ago, yet the comment has
stuck with me to this day. How can
something so integral to my iden-
tity be a curse? As the appointment
continued, so did the hairdresser’s
expression of discomfort with the
thickness of my hair as she remind-
ed me repeatedly of how blowing
my hair out was her “arm workout
for the day” and sent me off without
completing it because the appoint-
ment had run too close to her next
one. This is an experience I am very
familiar with — I’ve been condi-
tioned to understand that my hair
is a nuisance, and I act accordingly:
“Don’t worry about smoothing it
down, I can do it at home,” “I want
it straight, but it’s okay if it’s just a
blow dry,” etc.
Just two months ago, I got a hair-
cut at a popular salon in Ann Arbor
with primarily white hairdressers.
As soon as I walked in, I was met
with numerous shampoos, condi-
tioners and deep mask treatments
on racks for sale. The waiting area
smelled like lavender, and plants
were perfectly positioned around
me. The front desk employees even
offered me tea and other beverages
while I waited. I was delighted,
as usual, to get the type of treat-
ment for my hair that I’d always
desired, unlike what I used to get
when I went to the Desi salons at
home. I came in wanting a specific
hairstyle but was told that my hair
would be too coarse and unruly
with the product, so I should
choose something else. I was pre-
pared for this response, so I picked
one of the hairstyles from the back-
up options on my phone — ones that
I wasn’t excited about but pleased
to get approval from the hairstylist.
Throughout the haircut, I caught
the other stylists walking past
my chair as they whispered and
pointed at me. Subtle gossip ended
up with a group of hairstylists who
were not assigned to my hair gath-
ered around me as they frantically
talked about how they would “get
this done” in time. My face was
so hot as I had no choice but to sit
there in the chair with my hair
half cut. Toward the latter half of
my appointment, I had three hair-
dressers working on my blowout
without any coordination with the
style. It ended up being frizzy, and
one side was slightly curled while
the other was straight. Whatever,
at least they had finished.
I don’t know if oiling my hair is bad
for it, but honestly, I don’t care. I oil it
when I am miles from home because
it reminds me of how my mom would
do so for me on Sunday mornings
while she reminisced on how her
mother would do the same for her.
I oil it and feel, for a moment, that I
know my grandmothers despite the
fact that I never got the chance to
meet them.
I can go to as many Dry Bar or
Aveda salons that are out there, and
surely they may be more aestheti-
cally appealing in sight compared to
the Desi hair salons I went to grow-
ing up, but they will never provide
me with the same respect. They will
never be able to speak to my mom in
Hindi and ask her how her day was as
they oil my hair in Parachute before
combing it for my cut. Instead, they
will explain to me the harm that the
natural treatments I use have on
my hair while they promote their
alcohol-based shampoos to me after
my appointment. They will continue
to remind me that my eyebrows are
only beautiful when they are thread-
ed, and my hair is gorgeous only
when it is straightened.
I ask myself what is it that makes
the Desi hair salons less desirable if
they have done nothing but welcome
me? Is it that there is always a loud
fan whirring in the background, the
stylists are louder and the English is
sometimes broken? Is it how these
things are continuously associated
with the dirtiness, nuisance and
disruption that the Western world
thinks Desis supposedly bring? I find
it funny that I preferred light bever-
ages, lavender scents and luxurious
shampoos over actual quality cus-
tomer service: Service that never
made me feel bad for how I looked or
like I had to admit that my hair was
ugly.
To the hairstylist who affirmed
with such confidence that my hair
was a “curse” that my family inflicted
on me, I ask why you decided to pur-
sue a career in hair if you were never
willing to work with mine? Yes, I
am aware that my hair is perceived
as big, hard to manage and loud. But
you cannot marvel at my threaded
eyebrows while rejecting the natural
state of my hair.
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Michigan in Color
10 — Wednesday, November 30, 2022
It was the day – the first day of
college. I’d been in Ann Arbor for
four days, and it didn’t hit me until
that morning.
It didn’t hit me as I told you that
your only child was moving 206
miles away for college, nor did it hit
me as you waved goodbye from the
car window. I kept telling myself
that I was okay. After all, I spent
most of my life craving a whit of
independence. The day before that
morning, I strategically picked
out my outfit, just like I did every
year. You always told me that first
impressions were crucial. I picked
up my black mules, dark blue jeans
and a black top, and the red beaded
necklace I bought in our homeland,
Ecuador. As I got ready, my heart
was heavy, and it cried for you. I
was officially a first-generation col-
lege student, and I was drowning.
Once again, I was drowning in the
American world of workaholism
and college football. That morn-
ing, it finally hit me that I would
say goodbye to the folkloric dance
group sessions and our Ecuavol-
ley (a form of volleyball invented
by Ecuadorians) weekends that I
called home for 18 years. Through
the heartache, I got ready because
I wanted this world to see me.
I sought visibility after years of
being shamed for my long black
hair and broken English. Knowing
that I carried you within the red
beaded necklace gave comfort to
my heart – comfort that I needed as
I embarked on new terrain.
Learning the English language
at a young age was the first time I
felt myself drowning in this world.
This process was new to us, given
I was the first in my long ancestral
Indigenous line to speak English.
I was becoming a depiction of the
phrase: ‘I am my Ancestors’ wild-
est dreams.’ I didn’t know it yet,
but I was unfolding a lifelong pro-
cess of being two-in-one. To you, I
was your Mija (mi Hija, or daugh-
ter). But to this world, I was the
daughter of immigrants. For my
childhood friends and I, learning
English meant unlocking a world
filled with possibilities – possi-
bilities our immigrant, low-income
families didn’t have access to. We
were too young to understand the
value of American schooling, but
you knew that attaining an educa-
tion was key to our prosperity in
this country. As I unlocked this
world, I began to understand my
life as a constant battle between
two worlds: America and ours.
At school, I was learning to be
American. At home, I was back to
being Ecuadorian-Indigenous. As
I learned English, not only was
I amazed by the social and cul-
tural differences, but I was adding
another layer to my dual identity.
As astounding as learning a foreign
language was, I resented my learn-
ing process. In school, following
the English language standards
was crucial for academic success.
I couldn’t help but question how
I was supposed to excel in school
when no one at home could help
me. Sometime in my early years of
schooling, I realized that I would
have to navigate this world with-
out your guidance. That realization
was reinforced by my placement
in classes specialized for English
learners. I recall feeling left out,
so I began assimilating myself into
this world. Ultimately, I began to
receive academic validation. We
relished those moments, but – deep
in my heart – I felt misplaced.
Learning English and accommo-
dating myself to this world inaugu-
rated my lifelong journey of finding
ways to live between both worlds.
The more proficient I was in Eng-
lish, the more distant I felt from our
culture. When did you start feeling
my distance too? Was it when I
explained to you why there are 535
people in the United States Con-
gress? Or when I started forgetting
how to say certain words in Span-
ish? Every day, I was more Ameri-
can than the day before, which was
confusing to my Ecuadorian iden-
tity that was battling to show itself
every day. I was burying your Mija,
but I needed to for this world to
accept me. This world didn’t let me
speak Spanish in the classrooms.
The longer my black hair got, the
more I got called an ‘Indian’ by my
school peers. Too often, I wanted
to storm out of the classrooms and
find you because you accepted me
just the way I was. Every day in
this world’s classrooms was a battle
until I uncovered a solution: code-
switching.
The ability to switch between
dialects was the answer to all my
worries – at least, that’s what I
thought. I could make a doctor’s
appointment and rapidly repeat all
the details back to you in Spanish.
It was a gift. However, the more
skilled I was at it, the more it felt
like a chore. My code-switching
skills steered me to be your local
translator; gas paper bills, gov-
ernment-issued documents, and
street signs in English seized my
childhood. I had to translate back-
handed comments like “Hey girl,
tell your Dad to move the car?” and
“You cannot help him fill out this
form, okay?” Constantly using my
linguistic skills to translate took
over my younger years to the extent
to which I felt tired and angry, but
you know that. I felt worn out after
having long days of school and com-
ing home to another set of tasks.
There was only so much my young-
er self could handle. I felt angry
with this world that promoted
equality and advertised itself as the
Land of the Free but did not have a
Spanish translator at our local Sec-
retary of State facility. Although it
was backbreaking at first, I could
not say no to you, you who came
to this world with nothing and
allowed me to continue carrying
out my ancestors’ wildest dream.
As I battled through my American
teenage years and learned more
about this world, it became clear to
me that code-switching could only
help so much. Since then, I have
been on the hunt for new ways to
live in between worlds.
So that morning – after 18 years
of resistance and invisibility – I
realized I also had to come to
peace with my dual identity. Col-
lege would be a fresh start and an
opportunity to pursue my dreams,
so I decided to embrace who I was
across both worlds: Ecuadorian-
Indigenous and American. I recall
putting on the black mules I bought
at a Nordstrom store and thinking:
Is this too American? However, the
red beaded necklace I bought in a
small artisan market in Ecuador
a couple of years ago assured me
that I was still your Mija. Since
that day, I’ve found comfort in
the little things. On some days, I
wear the beaded earrings I stole
from your closet for my research
team Zoom meetings. When my
professors and employers ask me
to introduce myself, I tell them I
am Ecuadorian-American and a
first-generation college student.
And when I hear someone mispro-
nounce my name, I respectfully
correct them because I recognize
my name has power. I no longer
feel like I am drowning. Instead,
I am unapologetically swimming
in a pool that I know wasn’t made
for me. I walk into the classrooms
of this 204-year-old institution
every day acknowledging the his-
tory and power I carry. You gifted
me life, and my everyday goal is to
keep writing the history of our long
ancestral line, even if it does take
place in this new world.
Yupaychani, Mama
Yupaychani, Tayta
A letter to my immigrant parents
Photo courtesy of Luz Mayancela
LUZ MAYANCELA
MiC Columnist
The flat iron addiction
Design by Iris Ding
SAHANA NANDIGAMA
MiC Columnist
Read more at MichiganDaily.com