Hair Holds Memories

Not to be a bitch, but middle-school me had horrendous acne. Pepperoni face–I get what made me such an easy target, practically begging for it from peers and family alike.

One day, while I was at school, my mom switched out the bar of soap I used for my face for a skin-bleaching product to whiten it up. She always claims I’m “too dark,” making fun of my natural complexion. 

The bleach stung incredibly hard once it touched my face and irritated my acne so badly I started to cry. From this experience, I didn’t think I’d come across bleach again, but not long after, my hair became the next victim. And don’t even get me started on the time when I discovered coloured contacts.

I’ve been blonde, brunette, had jet black hair, red hair, and I’ve been Pinkie Pie’s twin with a bunch of big, bright, fun, colours, but it goes deeper than that. 

I’d like to believe that every time my hair changed, so did my identity. 

Growing up, I struggled a lot with embracing my culture. Kids would go up to me, telling me my lunch smells and call me “ching-chong.” Once I made peace with loving my culture, my parents moved me from a richly diverse neighbourhood in the ghetto, to a predominantly white suburban neighbourhood. 

During high school, I wanted to stand out being one of the only Filipinos at my school. I didn’t want to be an Asian stereotype, but following this socially constructed idea of what an Asian girl should look like, led me to my mountainous journey of embracing my Asian-features. 

I was once told I’d be “hotter” if I were white. I ended up being blonde for about a year and a half after that. That comment made me hate the natural waves of my hair, the darkness of my natural colour, the thickness, everything that made me resemble my ancestors. I hated my eyes and how small and almond-like they were, my lack of nose bridge, and how my natural complexion is “too dark.” I was horrible at math, so how Asian am I really? I didn’t want to associate myself with my race or ethnicity.  

What snapped me out of this self-loathing period of my life was when I was at a family gathering and my mom was laughing with her friends, telling them how I was “too dark,” how I gained weight, and how flat my nose sat on my face. My uncle immediately said, “I think her nose is beautiful, it fits her face properly. Why would God give her something that isn’t meant for her?”

Her friends followed suit, commenting on how my weight is healthy for my age, and it's a privilege to be well fed, and that my skin wasn’t “too dark,” it was what it's supposed to look like because I come from a lineage of Asian-Pacific Islanders.  

What my uncle said really stuck with me. Why would I be given something that wasn’t meant for me? If I really was meant to have the features I do, why waste my energy living in hatred when I can embrace what not only makes me, me, but what connects me to my roots.

I now love my hair, every colour it goes through, and I even have been training my natural texture. Although a lash-tech who fucked me over a few days ago told me my eyes were lopsided, my eyes are my favourite feature on my face. I love how my nose sits on my face, and I especially love the complexion of my skin.