Emma Sindoni
Trigger Warning: Body Image Issues
My hair, or Mufasa, as I like to call her, has been my greatest sense of being and my clearest sense of empowerment. She has been my source of pride and shame. She is who I am, but that wasn't always so.
A distinctive combination of my father's coarse kinks and my mother's soft waves, no one had hair like mine, not even my twin sister. It seemed as though straight, brown, shiny hair pervaded every line of sight. As such, my perception of beauty was skewered. I was a defect.
"Mejorar la raza," or improve the race, was a phrase I learned at eight years old while sitting on a chair in the middle of my grandmother's kitchen. A retired hairdresser, what she wanted most in life was for all her granddaughters to look "blanquita," or white, and I was the black sheep. It was time for my knotted, frizzy curls to be "smoothed out," as she said.
It burned, it itched, and it smelled, but this pain would soon be over. It wasn't just the mere appearance of Mufasa I struggled to accept, but all the ways she reminded me that I wasn't only white, but Afro- Latina.
The thing that gave it away was my "pelo malo," or bad hair. Relaxing the conspicuous atrocity from root to end would spare years of embarrassment and stares. I turned a blind eye, all the while clumps and handfuls of hair collected by the drain. My hair, like my identity, was at its breaking point.
Society, including my own culture, had led me to believe straight hair was more beautiful and thus, better. Withheld inside me, however, was a desire to be different, to be authentic. Even so, I couldn't muster the courage to be "imperfect," and avoided at all cost the vulnerable beginnings of growing out my roots. I realized that it wasn't my hair I hated, but myself for desperately wanting to fit in. I couldn't accept the truth that I was beautiful, regardless.
Well past midnight (and unbeknownst to my mother), I lay awake watching SunKissAlba, a YouTuber who had recently gained popularity for cutting off all her relaxed hair to the scalp, also known as the "Big Chop." Latina herself, she felt familiar. I connected with her almost immediately as she dispelled the beauty standard that had confined her curls and my own in a cage for years. "Dare to be different," she insisted. And just like that, a fire ignited inside me. Her words weren't only empowering, but cathartic; all beauty conventions were purged from my conscience. It was time to take back my identity.
On the spur of the moment, I grabbed a pair of scissors and chopped off the remaining relaxed ends. Mufasa, now curling above my ears, was defying gravity and the odds. After about an hour of crying, my tears turned into laughter; the striking similarity between Mufasa from The Lion King and I comforted me so much, I've been calling my hair "Mufasa" ever since.
Regrowing Mufasa prompted a renaissance: Every spiral was an act of defiance against society. Although Mufasa has grown out of the "fro-phase," I wouldn't hesitate to chop her off again.
Rediscovering my "roots" allowed me to grow into the woman I was destined to be. I blossomed with strength, independence, and confidence. More importantly, I realized that sometimes it takes losing a part of oneself to find oneself.
Mufasa now walks with pride. I refuse to alter who I am to conform to other people's beauty standards. My hair is my identity. She is wild, authentic, strong, and proud; she represents my Latina roots and serves as a symbol of hope for the future- a future that finds beauty in individuality and diversity. In my small community, I'm known as "the girl with the curls," and I couldn't be happier knowing that.