I am Simba
Hey, your hair looks like Simba from ‘The Lion King’!” my friend exclaimed, bursting into laughter. Friends’ well-intentioned comments about my hair’s perpetual disarray etched deeper scars, eroding my self-esteem.
Simba? Not a Disney princess or Barbie, but a lion cub? How I wished I could have Mia Thermopolis’ magical makeover in the movie “Princess Diaries.” If only that were the case, I wouldn’t have round brushes, clips, and hair ties still stuck in my hair.
I forced a smile that hid years of frustration, self-doubt, and the hope for straight hair. Simba was bold and unapologetically himself—but did I see those qualities reflected in my hair? From that moment on, my locks became more than just a physical attribute; they became a symbol of an identity I had yet to fully comprehend.
My hair, a manifestation of my Filipino heritage, had become a tangled battleground where societal standards clashed with my sense of identity. The story of my hair is not just about the strands that frame my face; it’s a narrative of self-discovery, resilience, and ultimately, embracing the beauty of who I am.
For the longest time, my hair was my nemesis, a cascade of thick, curly tendrils that defied my every attempt at control. I remember waking up at ungodly hours, at 3 a.m., long before dawn cracked the sky, armed with a flat iron, determined to tame the wildness into submission. The irony was cruel—hours of effort down the drain in just one hour as the humidity at school conspired to restore my hair to its natural wild state. I would watch, with a heavy heart, as the hours of painful styling get tied back again to the same bun hairstyle I had done for over 10 years already.
I labored to conceal what I saw as a flaw, a glaring imperfection that I believed marred my appearance. The struggle extended beyond mornings spent wrestling with hot irons. I would never agree to do spontaneous trips because I needed all the extra time I could get to avoid the frizz. I would flinch at the judgmental gazes of hairstylists who deemed my hair “difficult” to work with. Their raised eyebrows and additional charges were silent reminders that I didn’t fit the mold of “desirable” hair. My hair was not only a personal burden, but also a monetary one. Because of this, at the age of 12, I learned how to cut my hair to avoid the unnecessary comments that salon owners would make.
The effort to hide my true self extended beyond mere aesthetics. In the shower, my arms would grow numb from the contortions required to detangle my hair. The burn marks on my jaw and neck from too-hot flat irons became a testimony to my desperation to be like those shampoo models I saw on TV and billboards. The darkest moment came at 10 years old when I took scissors to my hair, mistakenly believing that severing my curls at their roots would pave the way for straight locks to flourish. I went to school having one-fourth of my hair shaved … at the front.
“Beauty is pain,” they said. As the physical pain of tight hairstyles yielded bald patches, it was as though my hair was screaming out for me to embrace its natural state and, by extension, embrace myself.
I got sick of trying to fit in the mold. I got sick of using straightening shampoos that turned my hair into a “walis tingting.” I got sick of pretending that I had the same silky hair as most of my peers did.
Thus, there arose a gradual awakening. The realization that my hair was more than a superficial trait dawned upon me. It was a trait passed on by my Lola, my mom, and me that became my key to appreciating uniqueness in a world that seemed fixated on homogeneity.
The days of battling frizz and waking up at the crack of dawn for a losing fight against humidity began to fade, as TikTok tutorials and YouTube hairstyle inspirations introduced me to a community of women who shared my hair journey. The catalysts for this transformation weren’t found in the flicker of a movie screen but in the real-world stories of individuals who had fought their own battles for self-acceptance.
These were the unsung heroes of my journey, the ones who turned social media into platforms of empowerment. They became my older sisters who taught me how to style my hair, and in turn, taught me to be me. Their videos were more than fashion guidance—they were declarations of self-love and authenticity.
As I run my fingers through my once-dreaded curls, I’m hit with the realization that my hair isn’t some puzzle to solve; it’s a mirror of my identity, a story that’s uniquely mine yet resonates with the countless others who have dared to challenge conventions.
To all my “kulot” girlies out there, love your lion hair and rule it like a true queen.
