Everyone knows what “Asian” hair looks like. It’s straight, shiny, glossy, and strong enough to withstand multiple rounds of bleach and toner. It might have some slight wave, and some charming curls at the tips, but it lies flat against the scalp and swoops delicately past the shoulders.
As a teen Malay girl in the western suburbs of Sydney, I was cursed with the opposite – wild, unruly and curly locks.
It’s 2008 and Single Ladies is on the radio. I don’t have a hair straightener. Instead, I’m bent over, hands flat against my kneecaps. Strips of frizzy hair are meticulously combed through and laid flat against the ironing board. My older sister carefully inspects the flashing orange light in front of her.
It’s an awkward position, made more so by the blood pooling towards my face. But it’s for a good cause. I have a party to go to tonight, and my sister’s glossy, straight hair twinkles like a promise.
It’s the era of the iron and girls everywhere are rocking dead straight hair and mimicking my hazardous endeavour by ironing their heads.
Who needs an expensive hair straightener when you have an iron available for free?
I have a party to go to tonight, and my sister’s glossy, straight hair twinkles like a promise.
You see, my problem was compounded by the fact that Asians were not supposed to have curly hair. Curly hair was for the Arab and African girls in school, whose natural hair I looked at in awe. Their shared talk of chemical straighteners and relaxers had nothing to do with me.
If anything, my hair just felt wavy, and frizzy, and annoying - with a botched-up fringe I was trying to grow out, and a ringlet or two tucked in there. I was the only one in my group with this problem. It was simply the wrong Asian hair and I had to fix it.
When my baby photos capture a chubby-cheeked, Nutella-covered, mass of riotous curls, I can’t help but wonder what happened. I didn’t even realise I felt stuck - between what I was supposed to look like, and what I did look like. I’ve always had curly hair. But it took me a long time to admit it - and take care of it accordingly.
Beneath the outrage around , bigger eyes, , or the “50kg” limit, there lies an assumption that Asian women around the world face the same set of restrictions around their bodies.
Who needs an expensive hair straightener when you have an iron available for free?
That’s just not true. Instead, it’s a reflection of how much the narrative around Asian beauty in the west continues to be dominated by a tiny subset of Chinese, Japanese, and increasingly, Korean faces. There are so many of us who in a variety of ways.
I found my liberation through tapping into the spearheaded by black women. Their resilience and fortitude - in the face of Western beauty standards and a constant barrage of dehumanisation - taught me that honestly, a little frizz never hurt anyone.
My hair which used to be dry from years of straightening has been resurrected into bouncy, defined helixes. It’s now shinier and moisturised without the damage created by sulfate-filled hair products. Now I use conditioner by happily squishing into my hair instead of dragging it through.
Most importantly - I feel better in my skin.
Living up to impossible beauty standards is a treacherous road for a woman to walk on. It’s in these moments I am reminded that I don’t have to.
Aisyah Shah Idil is a freelance writer.
