.follicular emancipation.

Four weeks ago, on a lovely, late-summer Friday afternoon, I posted the following Facebook status update: 

[Chommo] is about to get her hair cut by a non-Dominican for only the second time in her life. Hold me, I’m scared. 

Well. By the tone of the responses, you would have thought I’d announced I was becoming a Red Sox fan or something.

Don't do it! I'm scared for you!!

You are asking for trouble!!! Nooooooo don't do it. Where are u? I will find you a dominican hair salon.

Ay mi amor - be brave!!!!!!! …Then again, I get my hair cut by a Japanese girl with pinstraight hair and she rocks my world!

Um...good luck...I'm not even Dominican and I hesitate to let non-Dominicans touch my hair.    

You should be. Good luck!

Have you lost your mind????!!!! Last time I did that I went from having thigh lenght hair to looking like curly q.  

Um, way to set my mind at ease and give me that virtual hug I asked for, ladies.

But I can't say I really blamed them for their visceral reactions. Dominicans do make really great hairstylists – their renown has been covered by the New York Times, and all across these interwebs are sites full of message boards of people asking where they can find Dominican hair salons in their area. There’s even an entire website dedicated to preparing you for the Dominican hair salon experience (Read it – it’s quite informative.) And, not to be a race-baiter or anything, but I'd long doubted that anyone but one of my own people would be able to handle this pesky mop of hair.

But after the Great Straightening Fiasco of 2008 and its pitiful, limp aftermath, I was ready for a change. I mean, I was peeing in my pants thinking about  what this change might entail, but girded my loins and made an appointment at the Bumble and Bumble Downtown salon (…excuse me, I'm sorry, Bb. Salon at House of Bumble)  with the great, wonderful, talented, phenomenal Andrew M. He has been cutting my friend Haps’ hair for a few years now, and I figured that since she and I have similar hair (except that, as a Chicana, her hair lacks that certain coarse je ne sais quoi that some of us Caribbean ladies have), I would give it a chance.  

Oh my.

I may now be forever tainted as being a traitor to my people, but...but...but... I don't think I can go back to the Dominicans.

If we lived in an alternate world where relationships were built not on love or passion or companionship or finding that one person that will rub your back when your stomach hurts (the two are related, I swear), but rather on haircare compatibility, I would totally, totally marry Andrew M. I’d probably have to engage in a fight to death with Haps over him, and there would go our friendship of 13 years, but, um…maybe he might be worth it? (Joking. Maybe).    

My curls, my natural, god-given curly esses, had never been the object of so much concentration, so much snipping, stepping back, adjusting, snipping, stepping back, adjusting, tousling, diffusing, scrunching, consultation, and loving consultation. It was…unbelievable. No pressure to blow dry it straight, no grief about how I shouldn’t wash my hair more than once a week because “too much water is bad for your hair,” just care and concern for my traumatized tendrils.     

The salon itself was hilarious – it was like a fantasy version of [allegedly] hip-cool New York come to life. Lots of people dressed in all black, the women in high heels and candy apple-red lipsticks, the men in skinny jeans and ties and carefully coiffed head and facial hair. I felt like I was in an episode of The City and Olivia Palermo was going to come out and attack me at any time because I was such a rube I couldn't figure out how to belt the robe they gave me, and I didn' t have enough singles to tip the bag check girl [yes, bag check girl].  I was a bit disconcerted that I was sitting in the stylist’s chair not 5 minutes after I’d arrived, having for years been used to waiting around for hours until it was at last – finalmente, gracias a Dios, Ave Maria Purisima – my turn.    

My new haircut, with promotional consideration given to Bumble and Bumble’s Curl Conscious Holding Foam and Surf Spray:

This picture is crappy - I'm sorry, I tried to get a better one, but that endeavor was an epic fail. The lighting in my glorious cubicle leaves something to be desired.

But still - my hair cut: I loves it.

I lovesitlovesitlovesitlovesitlovesitlovesitlovesit. I don’t care that my mom asked me if this was it, and was I ever planning on brushing my hair again (“It’s just that you look so nice when your hair’s nice and straight”); I don’t care that all my brother El Papo does does when he sees me is look at my hair, roll his eyes, purse his lips, and say “Mmmm-hmmm”; I don’t care that I’d forgotten how much longer it takes to get ready in the morning to when one is actually styling one’s hair rather than throwing it into a ponytail. I realize - but don't care - that a lot of people (coughcoughmembersofmyfamilycoughcough) will think my hair just looks like a mess, like I just got out of bed.

I am follicularly reborn, and I don’t even care that it cost me $100 more than a normal trip to the Dominican salon (even with that $35 referral discount I got). IN THIS ECONOMY, perpetual brokeassness, blah blah blah. Don’t think I won’t be starting up a new “Bumble and Bumble” fund.  And Haps, don’t think I won’t shank you for Andrew. But you know, peace, love, looking forward to seeing you next week and all that jazz.

And please don’t tell my mom how much I paid for my haircut, kthnxbye.

© Chommo, 2009