Against my better judgment, I agreed to go to my local shopping mall with my indecisive shopaholic mother, knowing that this would be an all-day ordeal. I found myself with so much time to kill without my beloved wired headphones that I felt overwhelmed. Therefore, I decided to do what’s most exhilarating in public places: people-watching. Before I chose the most comfortable seating arrangement, I had to grab the classic salted pretzel and cold refreshment. The bright red “American Girl Doll” sign caught my attention as I was scanning the sitting area for possible couches. I hadn’t been in one of those stores in years and all of those memories came flooding back, especially the birthday party I’d hosted in this very store restaurant. I had to take a closer look, and why not, with all the time in the world?
The brisk rush of air from the semi-broken AC vent told me immediately that this store in particular had not changed even a little. My eyes looked for familiar faces, and I saw the first American Girl doll I owned, Saige, a brunette blue-eyed equestrian girl living in Albuquerque. Walking over to the Saige information board to further reminisce, I overheard a conversation that made me pause; it was an older man’s voice saying, “Go look around and see which doll you would want to take home today.”
I turned to see who he was talking to. It was a young girl, maybe six or seven, with full voluminous curls and golden skin. She brushed past me accidentally to view all of the dolls. There were so many options: Saige, Ruthie, Kit, Samantha, etc. The amused look she had on her face faded into an expression that piqued my curiosity to stick around to see which doll she chose. She looked perplexed, to say the least. The American Girl Doll store selection is much more inclusive and more diverse than in years prior, but all of the dolls that looked like her weren’t even in her view. A sense of anger and dismay flushed over me due to the lack of minority dolls in the front display. She started to walk around, and I hoped that she maybe didn’t realize other dolls were available. She went up to the doll that looked the most like her, stared at it for a little, and walked back to the dolls she liked before. After picking up Saige, she started looking at the other small trinkets like clothes or toy houses.
Her dad found her and asked, “Is that the doll you liked the most?” She nodded her head. “Did you see the dolls that looked like you? I think you have a lot of dolls like Saige at home.”
The daughter looked confused more than anything. I don’t even think it had crossed her mind to get a doll that she could resemble. “Aren’t dolls like Saige the prettier ones? She has the straight hair that I want,” she said.
Her dad looked crushed and I was crushed too, from afar. “Of course not, your curls represent who you are. Just because you may see girls in your class with straight hair does not mean that you need to have their hair texture. See, that one has beautiful curls like you. And that one over there tan skin like you. But they’re all equally pretty. I see Claudie over there, and she’s very pretty. Claudie’s hair is like yours too.” After a brief pause, the father asked a question hesitantly. “Do you not think your hair is pretty?” She shook her head. He knelt down to her level and spent five minutes talking to her about how unique her coils were and how beautiful her complexion was.
Even more memories came flooding back, but regarding my own experience with a situation similar to this. I remember yearning for the blonde, silky straight hair that you could just wake up and brush quickly. My “big” and “frizzy” hair was the opposite of what I wanted. The peak of my insecurity and dislike of my hair was when I started formal picture day in second grade. I always had to have straight hair for picture day. Societal expectations had led me to the idea that straight hair was a requirement for looking your best or “presentable,” which was deeply rooted in my mindset due to my environment. Therefore, the curls that I had no idea how to take care of and that would take hours to hydrate, moisturize, and define were not desired.
So, there I sat, in my mother’s bathroom the night before picture day to burn my curls into what I thought was beauty. Then I went to school the next day smiling in that school picture, painfully unaware that I was feeding into a hatred of the hair my ancestors gave me to be proud of. I was honestly elated that this little girl was receiving this valuable lesson at such a young age, versus learning that lesson in high school. It wasn’t till my sophomore year of high school that I wore my hair naturally for picture day confidently.
Knowing your personal values and feeling confident in your authentic self starts with small things such as this, by simply not feeding into the idea that there’s a superior appearance in some aspect, or that one’s curls aren’t “professional/presentable.” I saw the father check out and his daughter run out of the store with that infamous red bag. I didn’t even know this girl, but I saw myself in her. I saw how she could represent a whole community of young girls blind to their own beauty, but how she’s also representing a community that is taking back its power.
While enjoying my cherry ICEE, I was able to view a canon event in this girl’s life and hear an uplifting message that needs to be spread worldwide to other little girls afraid of embracing their authentic selves.
Maybe a mall day wasn’t so bad?