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

