As long as I can remember, trying to figure out the best way to manage my puffy, tangled hair was always a task for both my mother and I. We would visit hair salons often to try the latest techniques, treatments, or hair-dos to help tame my puff. From avocado to mayonnaise to leave-in conditioners, there was always a new magic potion that would outdo the last. My relatives would point out that my hair was a mix of both “pelo malo” and “pelo bueno.” The “pelo malo” or “bad hair”, as they say, came from my father’s super tight curls and the “pelo bueno” or “good hair” came from my mother’s flat, straight mane.
My father, a black Dominican, and mother, a white Dominican, proudly raised their children to appreciate their Dominican culture. However, that did not include a conscious and open embracing of our obvious African heritage. Not that being proud of my African decent was ever discouraged or purposely concealed, it was just never discussed. I was Dominican and there was no need to understand the color of my skin or the texture of my hair. Although it was evident that my skin was dark and my hair extra thick and curly, relaxing my hair did not make me less Dominican. It just made me look "prettier."
Today, as a woman who embraces her black heritage and identity, I have done away with chemically treating my hair, refusing to mold it into the prototypical “good hair”. However, this inner revival and celebration has been trailed by a host of social issues. I constantly deal with negative racial comments that my hair alone generates. Choosing to wear my hair natural stirs many mixed feelings and reactions from my family and community both in the United States and in the Dominican Republic. I have walked through the neighborhoods of Washington Heights, one of New York City’s predominantly Dominican communities, only to receive insults and negative looks.
During the spring of 2005, I stayed in the town of Herrera, Dominican Republic. I noticed that, like in Washington Heights, my natural hair made people uneasy. Men would call me names like, “pajona” or “leona” and the women would give me looks of disapproval as if walking out of my house with my hair in this way was a big “no-no.” I would have random people come up to me and suggest I visit “So-n-So’s” salon to chemically relax my hair. “She’ll do wonders with that pajon!” they would tell me.
Dominican-owned hair salons are like magical places for anyone who is seeking to transform their wooly hair into silky manes. If they’re lucky they can save themselves about $45 a week by visiting someone in the family who has a talent for working the blow dryer or does wonders with the “plancha”. If not, their weekly appointment at “Salon Yokasta” or “Vilmania Hair Salon” is as religious as going to church every Sunday.
I spent the last three years visiting Dominican beauty salons and barbershops in New York’s Washington Heights and in the Dominican Republic. I have spent this time documenting men, women and children of all ages as they transform themselves with hair-straightening tools, chemicals, fades, and braids. These beauty-altering institutions are my main subjects in my body of work because of the role they’ve played in helping me discover issues with perceived beauty and identity. I am fascinated by the power hair has in expressing, celebrating and simultaneously, suppressing ones heritage.
I encourage everyone to view my work with an openness and willingness to look a little deeper into what we think is beautiful and ask ourselves, How will we ever learn to love and accept each other when we fail to accept and love ourselves?
GIRL PORTRAITS
(The Process)
"DOMINICAN BEAUTY"
