It’s the summer of 1985, my 13th birthday, and I’m gonna make good on my promise to chop off all my hair. Close to 30 inches of long, thick, dark hair that everyone is in awe of. This crown of hair is being put to the test in DIY beauty shop experiments led by Mommy Dearest and her gaggle of sisters, The Tías. My hair is experimented on like I’m a mannequin: tugged, pulled, cut, crooked bangs, bound in all kinds of torture ties. Every Saturday, they prop me up on a wooden stool and yank my hair around like I’m their Barbie doll reject. No wonder I chop the hair off my Barbies that I don’t like anymore. Hurt kids hurt Barbies. 

So, my birthday wish: Chop it off! My first act of rebellion.

Mommy Dearest “dutifully” grabs her purse to take me to her salon. She seems to be taking much pleasure in this trip. She’s feigning the same sadness that my father is expressing, but I know her, she’s totally faking it. What I don’t know yet, is that she is happy to have my indigenous roots lopped off and out of her life, along with the memory of my birth mother, Romelia, the live-in domestic help who raised me in that household as my “nanny.” I don’t know it yet, but Mommy Dearest is not my “real” mother. I won’t find this out until 35 years from now, even though my toddler subconscious has been screaming it to me since I was four. 

I’m ready to step into that salon, I don’t care what they say to try and change my mind. This is my first taste of independence, and I’m going for it. The stylist is brushing my long hair into a ponytail. I absolutely love how she’s brushing my hair so gently and carefully. She wraps my hair into a nice loose ponytail, not like the tight torture ponytails I’m used to. I feel her hands tremble a little as she grabs my hair. She’s speaking to me in the sweetest Spanish, hoping I’ll change my mind. I’m starting to feel bad, almost regretful, until I hear Mommy Dearest complain how hard-headed and stubborn I am. There is no convincing this little devil not to chop off her hair, she laments. I don’t care, I can’t care, I’m digging my heels in.

What was this crown to me anyhow? No one else has it in my family. It is shamed and whipped into painful submission daily. So much anger is rising up inside of me, hearing my supposed “mother” talk about me like I’m her sworn enemy on the street. I’m going to close my eyes and go somewhere else, like I always do. Suspend reality until…I hear the shears. I can feel my hair being ripped at the cut, making all my roots tingle, strand by strand. Then, all at once, I feel the weight drop off as the ponytail falls to the floor. All the women gasp and I hear all their hearts breaking. The salon door swings open and I feel the cold air hit my neck. A deep coldness like I’ve never felt before. The long train of my crown that blanketed me my whole life is gone. Another piece of my identity gone, and all I can feel now is Mommy Dearest’s glee.

Who am I anyway? I try my hardest at everything and I still feel out of place. The act of chopping off my hair was a power move, but it feels like it’s weakening me. I feel disconnected from my roots. I feel so lost and on my own. 

Who do I belong to now? Not my family for sure, not even myself. 

*****

At my high school, no one looks like me. Lots of blue eyes and blonde hair, makeup, designer clothes, nice cars. Me, I’m sitting on the lawn in front of school during breaks and lunch, mostly alone. No crown and train to shield me from this lonely place. Will I ever belong here? Anywhere? With my newfound identity, I’m going to try different styling methods: tall bangs, Aquanet sets, finger curls, pin curls, hot roller sets, velcro roller sets, and maybe a good blow dry. I’m numb to everything until the heat of the blow dryer warms my scalp and connects me back to myself. 

I’m becoming ambivalent to the world around me and I get lost in taking my various hairdos out to parties, drinking to numb some more and just disappear. I know I’m inflicting physical and emotional pain on myself, but I’m trying to dull this aching feeling that something isn’t right. I’m convinced what isn’t right is me.

Why am I like this? No, really, why am I like this? I can’t do anything right. The only people who truly accept me are my nieces, nephews, and neighborhood children I babysit. I lovingly brush, style, and braid their hair. Fascinated with my thick, free-flowing hair, they tangle their little fingers around my locks. They play beauty shop, gently and lovingly brush and style my hair, like the señoras at the salon. They laugh at the funny voices I make up and I laugh at the crazy hair styles they give me.

****

Adulthood snatches me up the moment I find out I am pregnant. So many things are happening to me. I’m confused, scared, and keeping my sweet baby a secret until I can’t anymore. I’m having to look at my father’s crestfallen eyes once again, like the time when I chopped off all my hair. So much disappointment in his body language. A wedding will take place so I won’t completely shame the family. I’m going through the motions and stuffing my swollen belly into a wedding dress. I painstakingly style my own updo with baby’s breath. I go through the performance, grateful that my family will allow me to ceremoniously redeem myself.

When will my precious baby get here? I feel her spinning all around with excitement. I’m excited to meet her! I have heartburn; a lot of it. Will she have lots of hair like I did when I was a baby? How do I compare my baby self to my baby when Mommy Dearest has erased my existence as a baby? No baby pictures or birthing stories to validate me. Will I finally see myself in her? 

I do, insomuch as I can. I have been raised to see myself in strangers and now I finally see a tiny glimpse in the mirror. She softly coos while breastfeeding and reaches up for strands of my hair to hold on to, and like the warmth of the blow dryer against the crown of my head, I feel connected to me again.