Pura Vida
by Karina Velez Destiny
“Holy fucking shit,” I shout out to Jessica, stepping onto the terrace of our well air-conditioned casita. “It is beyond hot as balls out here, babe. My hair is already starting to curl!!”
Although the clock has yet to strike 9am, I can see the thermometer has reached full mass. From the veranda, I notice the rest of the guests at the resort heading out on their day of relaxation; I too am prepared to submerge myself in the easygoing rhythms of Pura Vida. But this heat though!
The sun is beating down, and I feel no wind, just the moisture in the air while we walk to breakfast. With every passing second I can feel my hair curling and lifting. Lifting and curling. The frizz. I feel it beginning to set in… I think about how much I dislike the heat but mostly, how much I detest my HAIR.
For most, the hardest part of traveling is the food or the sunburn or the struggle to hide from mosquitos’ stealthy ninja attack. Not me. The greatest battle for me is what to do with the mop on my head, that which—in humidity—quickly resembles a steaming pot of Ramon Noodles. Its not cute.
Growing up, this was my biggest insecurity, what took most of the girls in my class seconds to do, took ME hours--three to be exact. Three hours set aside to look like the rest them, the white girls in my class. 180 minutes to get these wild ringlets to behave and resemble the straight hair that so calmly rested on their heads. The process was always the same: 10 minutes to wash, 20 to detangle, 15 to put in rollers, 80 to sit under the scorching hot hair dryer, another 10 to remove the rollers and pins that held them in place, and lastly, 45 to blow it out straight.
Any time, mom and I didn’t take the time to tame this thing, I was guaranteed to come home from school in tears. I had “black girl” hair, they’d say. At the time, this was the biggest insult anyone could receive, which is still unclear to me. I don’t have nappy hair! I would think. I have… curls…somewhere. But in the predominately white academy I attended, curls and nappy hair were one in the same.
I think about my Germinican —German and Dominican— mixed mother’s perfect silk hair. How often she would tell me to be proud of my mane, as it was a “representation of your heritage.”
It was while she would do my hair each morning before school that we would practice our Spanish. She would say, “Destiny, usted sabe que es muy importante aprender español!” as she forcibly untangled the dry spirals that protruded from my SCALP. It’s important that I learn Spanish, I know, I know mom.
The following attempt to constrict my locks with TWO hair ties at once would always fail. As the tally of broken hair ties increased, my anger would grow deeper and deeper for my heritage, for my hair… which spoke Spanish for me.
So On the walk to breakfast…. a pair of “Coati”—the Spanish cousins to the Raccoon—run past us and I suspect they are also in search of a morning meal. Like us, these white nosed mammals took the long and least populated way. In the end, I applaud Jessica’s choice to walk down the narrow stone path rather than the main road, I am certain that after five minutes in this Costa Rican heat, I resemble cousin Itt from the Addams Family. The fewer people who have to witness this, the better! I humorously decide that this is the real reason the Coati ran past us.
As we approach the Mida Restaurant, I frantically make one last attempt to contain what is now a thick textured, frizzy mess matted to my scalp. AND Sure enough, just as we approach the hostess, right in front of her… my hair tie snaps... just as it always had. I panic and immediately observe the young Latina woman before me. who pretends she didn’t notice.
“Pura Vida, ladies. Just Two? Please follow me,” she greets us with a smile.
The “PURA VIDA” greeting and farewell is the prideful Costa Rican mantra, used often for its simple yet profound encouragement that people relax and enjoy their time. But I cannot. I cannot enjoy my time, I cannot relax. Especially when I follow the trail of her eyes as they move between the broken elastic in my hand to the top of my nappy head. I know what she’s thinking—how ugly she thinks my hair is. She looks back and forth once more, and I do my best to force a smile. BUT, I am livid at my ancestors for cursing me.
In the short time it takes the server to bring us coffee, I’ve played the hostess situation over and over in my head more than once and am filling even further with embarrassment, just like on those days at school, those days I tried so hard to look presentable, to look contained, to look pretty…like them.
Jessica attempts to console me twice by calling me beautiful more times than I deserve. But just before I am able to tell her that she can’t understand because she is a different kind of Spanish than I am…. she will never know what it is to be a mut, to be— But before I can even finish that thought.
I feel someone’s hand on my shoulder?
It’s the hostess.
She smiles gently as she hands me two of her own hair ties and begins to explain, in Spanish, that she has the same problem. Her hair breaks elastics, too, she says.
I thank her in the native language my ancestors’ spoke, the same language that my mother and I would practice in the bathroom every morning. And it is here, in Costa Rica, in this moment that I am thankful for my Spanish speaking hair and the gift of conversation it has granted me.
Although the clock has yet to strike 9am, I can see the thermometer has reached full mass. From the veranda, I notice the rest of the guests at the resort heading out on their day of relaxation; I too am prepared to submerge myself in the easygoing rhythms of Pura Vida. But this heat though!
The sun is beating down, and I feel no wind, just the moisture in the air while we walk to breakfast. With every passing second I can feel my hair curling and lifting. Lifting and curling. The frizz. I feel it beginning to set in… I think about how much I dislike the heat but mostly, how much I detest my HAIR.
For most, the hardest part of traveling is the food or the sunburn or the struggle to hide from mosquitos’ stealthy ninja attack. Not me. The greatest battle for me is what to do with the mop on my head, that which—in humidity—quickly resembles a steaming pot of Ramon Noodles. Its not cute.
Growing up, this was my biggest insecurity, what took most of the girls in my class seconds to do, took ME hours--three to be exact. Three hours set aside to look like the rest them, the white girls in my class. 180 minutes to get these wild ringlets to behave and resemble the straight hair that so calmly rested on their heads. The process was always the same: 10 minutes to wash, 20 to detangle, 15 to put in rollers, 80 to sit under the scorching hot hair dryer, another 10 to remove the rollers and pins that held them in place, and lastly, 45 to blow it out straight.
Any time, mom and I didn’t take the time to tame this thing, I was guaranteed to come home from school in tears. I had “black girl” hair, they’d say. At the time, this was the biggest insult anyone could receive, which is still unclear to me. I don’t have nappy hair! I would think. I have… curls…somewhere. But in the predominately white academy I attended, curls and nappy hair were one in the same.
I think about my Germinican —German and Dominican— mixed mother’s perfect silk hair. How often she would tell me to be proud of my mane, as it was a “representation of your heritage.”
It was while she would do my hair each morning before school that we would practice our Spanish. She would say, “Destiny, usted sabe que es muy importante aprender español!” as she forcibly untangled the dry spirals that protruded from my SCALP. It’s important that I learn Spanish, I know, I know mom.
The following attempt to constrict my locks with TWO hair ties at once would always fail. As the tally of broken hair ties increased, my anger would grow deeper and deeper for my heritage, for my hair… which spoke Spanish for me.
So On the walk to breakfast…. a pair of “Coati”—the Spanish cousins to the Raccoon—run past us and I suspect they are also in search of a morning meal. Like us, these white nosed mammals took the long and least populated way. In the end, I applaud Jessica’s choice to walk down the narrow stone path rather than the main road, I am certain that after five minutes in this Costa Rican heat, I resemble cousin Itt from the Addams Family. The fewer people who have to witness this, the better! I humorously decide that this is the real reason the Coati ran past us.
As we approach the Mida Restaurant, I frantically make one last attempt to contain what is now a thick textured, frizzy mess matted to my scalp. AND Sure enough, just as we approach the hostess, right in front of her… my hair tie snaps... just as it always had. I panic and immediately observe the young Latina woman before me. who pretends she didn’t notice.
“Pura Vida, ladies. Just Two? Please follow me,” she greets us with a smile.
The “PURA VIDA” greeting and farewell is the prideful Costa Rican mantra, used often for its simple yet profound encouragement that people relax and enjoy their time. But I cannot. I cannot enjoy my time, I cannot relax. Especially when I follow the trail of her eyes as they move between the broken elastic in my hand to the top of my nappy head. I know what she’s thinking—how ugly she thinks my hair is. She looks back and forth once more, and I do my best to force a smile. BUT, I am livid at my ancestors for cursing me.
In the short time it takes the server to bring us coffee, I’ve played the hostess situation over and over in my head more than once and am filling even further with embarrassment, just like on those days at school, those days I tried so hard to look presentable, to look contained, to look pretty…like them.
Jessica attempts to console me twice by calling me beautiful more times than I deserve. But just before I am able to tell her that she can’t understand because she is a different kind of Spanish than I am…. she will never know what it is to be a mut, to be— But before I can even finish that thought.
I feel someone’s hand on my shoulder?
It’s the hostess.
She smiles gently as she hands me two of her own hair ties and begins to explain, in Spanish, that she has the same problem. Her hair breaks elastics, too, she says.
I thank her in the native language my ancestors’ spoke, the same language that my mother and I would practice in the bathroom every morning. And it is here, in Costa Rica, in this moment that I am thankful for my Spanish speaking hair and the gift of conversation it has granted me.