Growing Up in Dominican Salons Shaped My Identity — Not Just My Curls

Like most curly-haired Afro-Dominican girls, I had a complicated relationship with my hair growing up. Society loves to say that Black girls hate their hair, but that's largely because we aren't encouraged to love or embrace it, at least in Dominican culture.

Starting as early as my first birthday, my curls were blown out straight, with not a single wave or spiral in sight. My little sister and I had what many in the Dominican community would consider softer, more manageable curls. And yet, even with that perceived privilege, our strands were still thicker and more labor-intensive than our mother's finer texture. With roughly 73 percent of the Dominican Republic's population being of mixed descent, textured hair is the norm. But the pressure to keep it straight was real. So, like many Dominican moms, mine did what she knew: she straightened our hair to keep us looking "presentable."

For most of my life, I dreaded wash day — which, for years, was Saturday in the early morning. My mom would set our hair in rollos (rollers) for a typical Dominican wash and set, then have us sit under our hooded dryer at home — every Dominican household had one. We'd sit there for about an hour, our tender heads and ears practically scorched from the blazing heat, always set to the highest setting. She'd pull out the heavy-duty round brush and salon-style blow dryer (the kind only found at the beauty supply store) and get to blowing out our greñas — curly roots.

Wearing our hair curly was never really an option — unless it was summer or on the days we had swimming lessons at the YMCA (a horror story for another day). Even then, mami rarely let us wear our curls out, mostly because she couldn't find products that could manage them. On those "curly days," our hair was usually pulled into a tight ponytail or pigtails, or styled into two braids. The message I absorbed early on — from both my family and the world around me — was that my hair was a problem. Something to be controlled, hidden, and constantly tamed.

By the time I hit middle school, mami made it clear I was on my own when it came to doing my hair. Those were some of my worst hair days — no matter how hard I tried or how much John Frieda anti-frizz serum I used, I could never achieve the silky, straight finish my mom always managed to pull off. I didn't inherit the magic wrist flick that most Dominican women seem to be born with. My at-home blowouts were so frizzy, it looked like I was channeling Diana Ross.

By high school, I was tired of being teased for looking like a hot mess. I swapped my glasses for contact lenses, got my brows done, and started setting aside part of my allowance to visit the Dominican salon every Saturday morning. For $20 to $25, I'd leave with hair so sleek, my friends swore I had a relaxer.

Ironically, mami had one hard boundary when it came to my curls: no chemicals. She believed my texture was too soft and delicate for relaxers — and she turned out to be right. The one time I got a relaxer at the Dominican salon behind her back, my hair fell out in clumps after the first wash. When she found out, she yelled at me. It was just one more example of the conflicting messages I grew up with around beauty, identity, and the value placed on my hair.

The ritual of attending the Dominican hair salon every Saturday continued well into my early 30s. Rain or shine, no matter what borough I lived in, I was at the salon by the crack of dawn with a tote bag full of my go-to Dominican hair treatments. Not because the salons didn't carry them, but because using their in-house products always came with an extra charge.

My commitment to the Dominican salon was always hard to explain to my non-Dominican and non-Black friends. To them, it seemed vain, even oppressive — a beauty ritual they couldn't fully understand. They had no idea what it meant to grow up being told that the hair that naturally grows from your scalp isn't enough — not pretty enough, not presentable enough, not professional enough. I was often told I was "obsessed" with my hair, usually by the same people who'd turn around and say I looked better with a blowout than with my natural curls. Go figure. White supremacy really is insidious like that.

The Dominican salon was a deeply conflicting place for me. On one hand, it was the only place where women who looked like me — and had hair like mine — truly knew how to care for my strands. It was also a judgment-free zone. No one questioned why you were there every weekend or why you spent your money chasing sleek, polished hair.

When I wasn't making friends with the other girls under dryers, I was venting about my life to my peluquera (stylist) or snacking on homemade empanadas from the local empanada lady, who always came through with warm café con leche in foam cups. I'd often leave with little extras too — deeply discounted Colombian jeans (which were a thing during my teen years), Victoria's Secret panties, or some glitzy costume jewelry.

For a no sabo kid like me — raised by Dominican parents who immigrated to New York in the '70s and didn't always keep up with the music coming out of the island — the salon became more than a beauty stop. It was my cultural classroom. It's where I discovered the latest merengue and bachata, practiced my Spanish, and worked on my Dominican accent. No matter how long the wait, I always left the salon feeling just a little prouder to be Dominican.

But as community-based as Dominican salons were, they also came with a lot of negative messaging around what we had inherited. The walls were often lined with posters of straight-haired white women that looked nothing like the customers, and the cabinets were stocked with every relaxer brand imaginable. Depending on who was doing my hair that day, I either had "pelo bueno" or "pelo malo." To the Dominican stylist with naturally straight or wavy hair, my curls were "bad." But to the stylist with tighter coils — who relied on relaxers or keratin treatments to keep her hair stick-straight — I had "good hair." Still, either way, the message was clear: my hair needed to be straightened.

Having lived all over NYC — from Queens to Brooklyn and even Uptown — I've probably sat in more Dominican salons than I can count. I could honestly write a book just from the stories I've gathered. At one point, I even found a few tucked away in Midtown, close to my jobs, for those last-minute events, galas, or beauty shoots. It didn't matter how much time or money it cost me — as a Dominican girl, looking fresh to death was always a priority.

It wasn't until around 2017 that I finally decided to take a real break from the salon — and from hot tools altogether. I had made several attempts to embrace my curls starting in college, but the lack of resources and quality products always pulled me back to the comfort of the Dominican salon.

By then, though, things were shifting. A growing community of curly-haired Latinas — led by trailblazing Afro-Latinas — were sharing tips and product recs and even launching their own curl care lines. Around that time, I met my now-good friend Carolina Contreras, aka Miss Rizos, who had just opened her first natural hair salon in the Dominican Republic, and for a time, ran a location in Washington Heights.

Since then, I've been rocking my long, natural curls — with zero regrets and no plans of turning back. On the rare occasion I get a blowout (maybe once or twice a year), I find myself counting down the days until I can wash it out and return to my curls.

Still, as more Dominican salons in NYC close under the weight of rising rents, I find myself missing the sense of community they once offered. While the demand has shifted — with more of us embracing our natural textures — the need hasn't entirely disappeared. Many of us still rely on salons for color, cuts, treatments, and the occasional non-damaging blowout.

I dream of a Dominican salon that embraces it all: curl cuts, protective styles, deep treatments, and yes, the classic wash-and-set — rooted in the intention of protecting and nurturing our curls. That, I believe, is the only way the Dominican salon can truly evolve and survive. In the meantime, I'll keep rocking my curls with pride.

Johanna Ferreira is the content director for PS Juntos. With more than 10 years of experience, Johanna focuses on how intersectional identities are a central part of Latine culture. Previously, she spent close to three years as the deputy editor at HipLatina, and she has freelanced for numerous outlets including Refinery29, Oprah magazine, Allure, InStyle, and Well+Good. She has also moderated and spoken on numerous panels on Latine identity.