Culture

Dominican Hair Don’t Care

santo domingo hair
CREDIT: MEREDITH KAHUT / THE NEW YORK TIMES

Straight, long, silky hair has been considered “better” by many — and that opinion has perpetuated the belief that anything different is not beautiful.

One woman in Santo Domingo is changing that. Carolina Contreras, 29, opened her Miss Rizos salon after her blog — where she talked about skipping the chemicals that made her hair straight and maintaining naturally curly — became so popular.

“I would walk down the street and women would stop me and ask me how I got my hair like that,” she said before opening her salon.

READ: This Hairdresser Uses Torches and Swords on His Clients and They’re Cool With It

Lucky for many because now she has clientele traveling from all over to get their hair done by her. And it’s not just about hair. Eileen Fuentes, who traveled to Santo Domingo with her three daughters specifically for an appointment at Miss Rizos, said, “We have been programmed to not embrace our very obvious African heritage, and I wanted to break that vicious cycle. We are black, our hair is kinky, and we are very proud of it.”

As for what she wanted to teach her daughters: “It was important for me that my daughters go to a place in the Dominican Republic where the natural pattern of their very curly hair would be embraced.”

Read more about natural, Dominican hair here.

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Here’s What’s So Powerful About The DMX Challenge Black Women Of Twitter Are Having Fun With

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Here’s What’s So Powerful About The DMX Challenge Black Women Of Twitter Are Having Fun With

@lanifeli_ / Twitter

Who knew 20 years after rapper DMX air-dried the names of his sexual partners in his 1999 hit “What These Bitches Want” Black women of Twitter would be co-opting the lyrics? In a recent social media challenge circulating online, Black women are showing off the ways in which they can get creative with their looks. Dubbed #dmxchallenge, women have been syncing up their various hair selfies to the original lyric roll call.

The result is a master class in Black hair excellence and diversity.

In the challenge, Black women are proving the tumbao knows how to serve a lewk x 1000.

If you don’t remember the lyrics to the original song keep up:

“There was Brenda, LaTisha, Linda, Felicia, Dawn, LeShaun, Ines and Alicia, Teresa, Monica, Sharron, Nicki, Lisa, Veronica, Karen, Vicky (damn), Cookie, well I met her in a ice cream parlor, Tonya, Diane, Lori and Carla, Marina, Selena, Katrina, Sabrina, about three Kims (WHAT?) LaToya and Tina, Shelley, Bridget, Cathy, Rasheeda, Kelly, Nicole, Angel, Juanita, Stacy, Tracie, Ronna and Ronda, Donna, Yolanda, Tawana and Wanda..”

The viral hashtag is proof of Black women’s ability to compliment any style– no matter the length, color or curl pattern.

Now if you’re not up to date on the number of names DMX says in his piece never fear! We’ve done the math.

DMX spouts off the names of 46 different women that he’s slept with and you better believe the wigs of Black Nation are rising to the occasion.

Which means 46 looks that the challenge is trying to get women to show off.

And tbh the number of looks the women are serving in just a year alone are BEYOND beyond.

In case you didn’t know the looks form Yolanda and Vicky are so far the best.

And while spotting a hairstyle to match with each name might seem impossible, these girls are nailing it.

Literally not a single Becky look is being served in this challenge.

Like this woman even sneaks in a few extra looks.

Which is proof that when it comes to creativity and style, Black women will never come up short.

That’s right girl, the marathon continues. Tag us in your DMX challenge so we can see your looks of the year.

Every Time I Go Back To The Dominican Republic, I Remember The Person I Am And Want To Be

Culture

Every Time I Go Back To The Dominican Republic, I Remember The Person I Am And Want To Be

aruni_y_photography / Instagram

Anyone traveling to the Dominican Republic this summer has likely been met with the cautionary warning; “Don’t drink anything from the minibar.” Eleven tourist deaths on the island in 2019, ranging from natural causes to counterfeit alcohol consumption, have spurred FBI and State Department investigations. Though news of flight and hotel cancellations abounded, I missed my family and refused to let fear stop me from seeing them. Since I lived to tell the tale, here are a few things I learned about my father, about myself, and about the precarious paradise that keeps calling me back.

Billy Joel and Nas have interpreted the “New York state of mind,” and if you have ever visited the Dominican Republic beyond the purpose of tourism, you’ll know that there exists a Dominican state of mind too.

Credit: Dan Gold / Unsplash

Whenever I exit Las Americas or Puerto Plata airports, humidity slaps me in the face, and my Dominican mindset is immediately activated. On this island, electricity does not run 24/7. When the electricity goes, or as we say “se fue la luz,” water doesn’t run from the tap either. All that is left to do is swap your sneakers for flip-flops, and exorcise your need for immediate gratification. It takes practice, and I re-learn this lesson with each visit.

The Dominican Republic is changing fast. 

Credit: zonacolonialrd / Instagram

There is new construction everywhere you look. I sit on the balcony chatting with my father and stare across the street trying to remember how it looked before the apartment building was constructed in that space. I can see from an open doorway on the ground level that wooden boxes are being stacked, and hauled out in front of a business. I tune out my father’s voice as I focus on the shape and size of the boxes. My Spanish needs work, and I ask my father, “Papi, what does ataúd mean?” The business slogan translates to “Quality Coffins.” I think about magic realism traditions in Latin American literature, and I am reminded that so often a country like this juxtaposes disparate images and experiences in such a casual manner. I don’t think I would be able to live across the street from a constant reminder of death anywhere else but on this incongruous island.

We drive to the countryside of El Seibo for a few days.

Credit: fedoacurd/ Instagram

My father syncs his playlist and he directs my sister what song to play next. The first song is by Boy George. I watch my father sing along, and I can’t help but think about the Dominican Republic’s homophobic culture steeped in hyper-masculinity. Same-sex marriage is not recognized on the island, and members of the LGBTQ community continue to face discrimination and violence. I talk to my sister about this later that night, and she tells me small changes are coming to the island. The city of Santo Domingo hosts inclusive events like Draguéalo, where you can even sign up for a Vogue class.

Credit: Draguelao / Facebook

My father’s playlist continues and I’m struck by his selections ranging from Taylor Swift to A.I.E. (A Mwana), a song by a 1970s group called Black Blood, featuring lyrics in Swahili.

I watched this Dominican dad jam across continents, decades, cultures, languages, and race. I realize there is so much I don’t know about him, and so often we shortchange our parents’ knowledge and experience, reducing them to stereotypes and gendered tropes.

My next lesson is on staying sexy.

                                                           Unsplash/Photo by Ardian Lumi 

After a few days in the countryside, my sister and I rent a hotel room in La Zona Colonial. We ready for a night out when she looks at my outfit and asks me, “Um, is that what you’re wearing tonight?” I thought my yellow jumpsuit was poppin’. My sister pulls out a little black dress from her overnight bag and kindly suggests I wear it. The dress is tiny. It’s skimpy. It’s super short. It’s absolutely perfect. I channel my inner Chapiadora, Goddess of Sex Appeal and Free Drinks, and dance all night. 

Growing up in the 90s, I styled myself in oversized men’s clothing. It wasn’t until that one magical summer in the Dominican Republic when the heat was too oppressive to wear jeans, so I wore—gasp—a skirt. That was the first time I felt sexy, and learned the power of sex appeal. Though I wielded that power throughout my twenties, it fell away in my thirties. Wearing my sister’s LBD I realize I still have “it,” and in the Dominican Republic, sex appeal is ageless. Be careful when you come here. You may fall in love with a local, or you may just fall in love with yourself again.

The island leaves me with one last lesson.

It comes late one night, sharing a few bottles of wine with my father and sister. No hay peor ciego que el que no quiere ver—the worst blind person is the one who refuses to see. I could say the current political landscape in the U.S. reflects this willful ignorance, a refusal to see; yet it is the same human experience felt across space and time.

I come away wondering about my own blind spots.

                                                            Instagram/@rensamayoa

I board my return flight thinking up ways to combat willful ignorance at home, thinking about maintaining that flexible DR state of mind and thinking about buying a little black dress. As tourism in the Dominican Republic picks up again, and unfavorable headlines drop out of the news cycle, this changing island stands in its own plurality welcoming visitors, and offering endless opportunities to teach us something new.

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