By Maryryn Queenie
Most girls get hair treatments done during their teenage years or even in their 20s, when they’ve decided whether or not they love their natural hair. I got it at 6 years old. And I wasn’t even given a chance to like mine.
I vividly remember 14 years ago; it was a sunny afternoon. Like most children, I waited all day to finally be able to play outside. To fill my hands with mud and pretend to cook leaves. My mom, dressed, slowly approached me. “Aalis tayo, (we’re leaving)” she said as she took my hand.
After a six-minute jeepney ride from our barangay, I walked into a place where the sounds of hairdryers and multiple scary machines filled the space. I didn’t know what the place was. I couldn’t even read yet what the sign outside said.
My mom said, “Upo ka diyan. Magpapa-rebond ka (Sit down, you’re getting a rebond).” I sat there as people worked on my hair using smelly chemicals that hurt my nose and hot equipment that burned me multiple times.
And I did it every six months. For years.
My hair had always swirled like telephone wires. As much as I love playing with it (every time I pull it, it would bounce back to its original shape), it was the reason why I was different from the rest of them.
“Bruha!” “Kulot salot” and even “aeta” were the words I heard people say to me every day. And not only outside but by my own family.
That was the kind of environment I was born and raised in—loud, not with laughter, but with anger and hatred. Where people rejected progress and little children couldn’t even think to dream. I hated it.
It made me question, what was wrong with my hair? What was wrong with me?
As I grew up, I knew who I was and what I am for. I should never be like them. I made efforts to stand up for myself and all the injustices that came my way. But if you are a child, doing it all alone, it is impossible to be heard in all its noise. And if you’re a child, unheard, with no resources, it’s impossible to get help, especially professionally. Still, I persisted.
I studied harder and eventually became interested in politics and journalism. All this knowledge gave me even more courage to rise above where I’ve come from. It became my everything. It gave me a space where I was heard, a platform to make a change. I used it to speak up, not only for me but for others.
One pandemic night after crying to myself and being tired of everything, the urge of wanting total change electrified me. I stood in front of the mirror, steady with courage. There I saw a girl built on worn-out threads but was able to turn it into steel covered in roses — there may be thorns but she never failed to bloom.
I gathered my long straight hair and slowly, my hands trembled reaching for the scissors. I never knew the sound of scissors cutting into hair would be something that would finally bring light into such a dark place. I’ve never felt so alive and free. It was my own form of rebellion.
As I cut my hair, I also cut the shadows of my past and my poisonous relations along with it. And then tears started falling down. And for once, it wasn’t for pain but for the lightness I felt in my heart for the first time.
“Healing is the best form of revenge,” they said. I am now an independent 20-year-old woman and my curly hair also had its time to finally grow, flowing wildly into the rhythm of nature.
I graduated high school with nine medals while navigating my way toward adulthood. I managed to fly higher — in life and into the mountains of Baguio. I now live alone; I get to do everything on my own yet somehow, there’s always a smile on my face in each part of it. I am halfway through college with the best risks I’ve ever taken.
The daughter of emotionally unavailable people even found it in her heart to love … and be loved. Opening my doors to people took a lot of courage. I never trusted anyone, especially myself for that matter. Thankfully, I found Risha, Rica, Isa, and all my friends — the wind that inspired me to fly, especially in the most lifeless times. They made me realize that I was never too much. And my Sam, whose gentle and kind love made my rainy days full of rainbows.
And most importantly, I learned to be kind to myself … and to the little girl I once was. I now make sure to get all I need. I listen to my body. I work on my growth, empowerment, and healing. I take care of myself — not only physically but also emotionally and mentally.
To my 6-year-old-self and her telephone curls, life gets better. You can make it better. You will write your own story. You will decide your own hairstyles. You will be loved. You will be free. You may have had to grow up too soon, but you will find ways to heal the little you later. You will grow up into such an empowered woman who empowers others too. A soft universe awaits you. I am proud of you.
Life truly gets better.
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