I have a confession. I am 30 years old and I am just now beginning to learn how to do my hair.

Yes, you read that correctly. It’s taken me three decades to confront the problem head on (no pun intended).

Now lest my grandmother somehow come across this, let me dispel the notion that I was somehow an unkept child. (Grandma, do you even know how to google blogs? Who am I kidding? If your grandmother is anything like mine, you know they find a way to keep sorts of ‘momentos.’) This to not an indictment on my childhood, but in many ways, it is an indictment of the way I grew up.

See, in communities of color, hair is a big deal. I remember being in middle school and high school and watching enviously as my majority-white peers would flip their hair into a “messy bun” nonchalantly as they talked. Or how they’d wash their hair after swim practice and let it air dry (without any products!) as if it were the most normal thing in the world. And how I’d have to plan ahead very carefully for pep rally days, when I’d inevitably be required to let someone French braid my hair and have to pray that it cooperated, had enough product but not too much to feel greasy or strange to foreign hands, and that it didn’t stick up too much in the process.

It didn’t help at all that those were the days before flat irons, or that chlorinated pools and relaxed hair are even less compatible than oil and water. I cringe thinking of the years of damage that my hair endured for the love of the sport.

But perhaps the worst damage, was the one it’s endured in the decades since. The constant flat ironing, weaves, ponytails, buns–anything to keep it “manageable” (aka out of its natural state).

I think I was about 10 years old when I had my first relaxer. Then, my hair was nearly 3/4 of the way down my back and thick like a lion’s mane. I remember my mom telling me that my hair was getting too hard to manage, and that I’d be needing a relaxer. At first, it felt like a rite of passage–having watched my mom relax her hair every couple of months. I felt like a big girl. Over time, it became the chore that would take up half of a perfectly good Saturday (the other half was obviously spent cleaning. I still twitch at the memory of salsa blaring before 8am–the signal that it was time to wake up and clean).

What I didn’t understand then, that I can appreciate now, is how that ritual embodied the self-conscious self-loathing that my mom had been conditioned to have towards her blackness. Despite the beautiful mahogany skin of her brother and sister, to this day, my grandmother does not identify as Black (even though her siblings do. Yup, good ol’ colorism at work, folks). In fact, if you press her on it, she’ll ask why someone wants to know, tell you to leave a form blank, or just plain say that she’s Puerto Rican and that doesn’t apply. And I know she’s not alone.

Colorism and racism are rampant among Latinxs. The history of colonization of Latin America ensured that white supremacy was well established throughout conquered lands. Hierarchies based on blood lines and worthiness got passed down from generation to generation, as indigenous people were slaughtered and pillaged.

And so, it’s easy to see how my mother, who then about my current age, passed on many of the same ideas. She did what she knew. And short of finding a Dominican salon, the only alternative she know was an at-home, no-lye relaxer. She even thought it would be “much better for my hair.” (Spoiler alert–the nearest Dominican salon one was an hour and half away. We were in the middle of nowhere. I’m also pretty sure when we moved, we quadrupled the number of people of color in that town.)

That relaxer made my hair easy to style and helped me always look “presentable.” It didn’t take long for me to figure out that my hair was not naturally presentable, and that I had to tame it if I wanted to fit in or not look a mess.

Now before anyone goes crucifying my mother for adopting Eurocentric standards (or for any reason really–I get real protective about my Mami), let’s not forget that these were also the late eighties/early nineties. Hair care options for people who hadn’t yet made the come up were basically hot combs, hair gel, relaxers, or that weird mayonnaisa or aguacate concoction that my Grandma often brought when she came to visit and that smelled awful (::side eye::). This was pre-Google and YouTube and learning about hair care wasn’t as ‘easy’ as it is now (more on that later). We didn’t have any neighbors of color to ask (or talk to), and most of my cousins were more fair-skinned with “good” hair (::eye roll::). So she did the best she could.

It makes me sad that the best she could involved a mind-fuck of great proportions, for both of us (I won’t apologize for my language; I don’t think there’s a better word to describe the deep-seeded colonialism and violence that spawned that mentality). Sad that she’s gone her whole life unable to see the beauty in the hair that grows out of her head. Sad that it feels courageous to me to wear my hair natural in professional environments. And even sadder that in many of those professional environments, the Eurocentric ideals of my mom’s upbringing are still the norm or the ideal.

It’s that same line of thinking that makes people in the workplace tell me I look “particularly professional” on days when the only thing that’s different is that my hair is straight. It’s that same racist (yes, I said it) mindset that gets kids kicked out of school for having their hair in braids, or dreads, or merely having extensions. I don’t have to tell you that each of those kids is Black right? White braids and extensions are never problems.

And so, unfortunately, it makes sense to me that my mom taught me to straighten my hair. After all, people of color, especially those of few means are harshly scrutinized by society and by state actors. We weren’t in Miami anymore, where kids went to school with ‘fros and braids and it was just life as usual. She knew that I, my family, and our entire way of living would be judged by someone else’s idea of “presentable.” (For more on this, read Prof. Khiara Bridges’s Poverty of Privacy Rights.)

Poor people don’t have the luxury of being messy dirty or looking like they don’t care. Should you dare to attempt the “rolled-out-of-bed” look, you will be judge with the quickness, not only by your peers but also by society. You are immediately registered as being less than.

And that it’s still happening in 2018, disgusts and disheartens me. And until we start changing the norm, it’s not going to go anywhere. So I made a commitment to myself, to embrace my full self. And as long as the weather is warm enough that I don’t get sick, I’m working on learning to twist out to my heart’s content. And embracing each one of my spindles. Learning how to let my hair grow (all those relaxers and all that chlorine broke off most my hair).

So I turned to YouTube, and Google, and to any friend who was brave enough to wear her hair natural in a society that said that “natural hair” is “white hair” and our hair is something different. Something to be tamed and policed–like our bodies, our tones, and our actions.

At first, I worried about being perceived as “othering” the women I asked, or making them feel like a zoo exhibit. But eventually, I leapt from my comfort zone and approached people who seemed like they’d be open to helping me learn—and, oh boy, is there so much to learn. I’ve learned about hair patterns, hair textures, the damage that water alone can do to my hair, and so much more. I’ve tried different products, learned different techniques, and despite all the work, am grateful for what I’m learning. I’ve also gained a better sense of myself, and more self confidence. I’ve begun to really start to love myself. And that I can do that while fighting the patriarchy is just icing on the cake.

That’s part of what’s so inspiring about the increase in representation of black women throughout the media (and different types of black women). Visibility and representation matter; they help change the status quo. They help educate, inspire, and tip the scales.

I hope that little by little the movement keeps growing until my hair is seen as just hair. That my niece will never hate her curls, and that my mom will be confident enough to embrace hers too (other than just at the beach). Until then, I’m open to any product tips and tutorials to help me keep learning and keep growing these gorgeous curls.