THIS is a Poly Girl: Keke Vasquez-Tamaliʻi

On a film set, there’s a moment before the cameras roll when everything goes quiet.
Actors are in position. Wardrobe is locked. Hair and makeup are checked. Time is tight. Cameras roll.

And in that space—between preparation and performance—Keke Vasquez-Tamaliʻi is working.

She is a Union Journeyman Hairstylist with IATSE Local 706, the film and television union representing professional hair and makeup artists trusted on major productions to shape characters, maintain visual integrity, and support storytelling at the highest level. Her work appears on screen, but her influence lives behind it—through precision, consistency, and care.

It’s not a space many Pacific Islander women occupy.
And it’s not a path Keke ever imagined she would take.

Which makes the question unavoidable.

How does a Polynesian girl find her way here?

A Woman Who Carries More Than Her Role

Keke Vasquez-Tamaliʻi is Tongan, Samoan, Hawaiian, and Māori. Born and raised on Oʻahu, she grew up surrounded by language, culture, and community. She attended Hawaiian language schools and was raised primarily within her mother’s Tongan family, where respect, humility, and responsibility to others weren’t ideals—they were everyday practice.

Those teachings shaped how she listens, how she leads, and how she shows up.

Keke doesn’t see success as something earned alone. She understands that what you do carries weight beyond yourself—that it reflects your family, your culture, and the girls watching quietly, wondering if a life like this could ever be theirs.

She leads with service rather than ego. She takes up space without shrinking. And wherever she goes, she’s mindful of leaving room for others to follow.

These values became the compass she relied on when certainty disappeared and she had to move forward without a map.

Leaving Hawaiʻi: When Safety Comes Before Stability

The life Keke lives now is steady—but it was shaped early by uncertainty.

Leaving Hawaiʻi wasn’t a dream or a career move. It was an act of protection.

Her mother made the painful choice to leave home to safeguard her child, stepping into the unknown without resources, without a support system, and without guarantees. The move wasn’t about opportunity. It was about survival.

On the mainland, home became temporary. Motels. Packing and unpacking. Learning how to live without permanence. Keke watched her mother navigate unfamiliar systems and constant uncertainty with strength and love.

That experience stayed with her. Stability, she learned, isn’t promised—it’s built.

Growing Up Between Worlds

Adolescence meant learning how to live between cultures—and often, between expectations.

Keke moved from the close, family-centered world of Hawaiʻi into environments that felt faster, harsher, and unfamiliar. Her pidgin accent set her apart. Her background was often misunderstood. She was placed in ESL despite being a strong student—an early lesson in how quickly schools label before listening.

Teachers underestimated her. Peers didn’t quite know where to place her. Financial hardship made everything harder to hide.

She didn’t push back loudly. She turned inward.

Books became a place of safety. Observation became instinct. She learned how to read people, listen carefully, and adapt without losing herself. Even as she moved through unfamiliar systems, she held onto who she was—carrying her identity quietly, but with intention.

Choosing Stability and Losing Alignment

As an adult, Keke followed a path many first-generation daughters understand well: choose stability.

She built a successful career in technology, working as an engineer in cybersecurity companies. She climbed steadily while balancing motherhood, long hours, and expectations that never seemed to ease. On paper, everything looked right.

But the cost accumulated.

Each step up brought more pressure, more scrutiny. Burnout didn’t arrive all at once—it settled in gradually. She felt herself pulling away from creativity, from emotional presence, from the parts of herself that once felt alive.

Before early retirement was even a possibility, creativity found her again—this time through makeup. What began as an outlet became sustaining. Working with fakaleitīs during a difficult season reminded her that creativity wasn’t optional. It was part of who she is.

Leaving tech wasn’t about failure or walking away from success.
It was about choosing herself.

That choice would eventually lead her, unexpectedly, into film.

Finding Her Place in Film

Keke didn’t chase the industry. The work found her.

After leaving tech, beauty became her entry point. She entered beauty school intending to become an aesthetician, but the program offered cosmetology instead. It wasn’t the plan. Still, she trusted the process.

Midway through school, a major life shift nearly pulled her away. She credits the women around her for helping her finish—classmates who became anchors, friendships that still matter. She earned her license through discipline and support.

Film arrived unexpectedly.

At The Makeup Show, the largest event for beauty professionals, she met a hair department head who needed help on a project involving an actress with textured, color-compromised hair. The work required technical skill, patience, and an understanding of hair the industry has often mishandled.

Keke stepped in, not just to correct hair, but to protect the character.

Seeing her work translated on screen confirmed what she already felt: this was where her skills belonged.

Becoming Union and Becoming Herself

As she moved deeper into film and television, Keke earned trust quickly. She was brought into principal spaces because she could deliver under pressure—advanced color work, precise styling, all while staying on schedule.

When a costume designer once brought her onto a project because there was no hair department head available, Keke stepped in—not to claim a title, but to support the work. She led a team, collaborated across departments, and mentored another stylist into a key role.

That experience shifted how she saw herself.

Leadership, she realized, doesn’t always announce itself. Sometimes it simply shows up prepared.

Carrying Identity Where You’re Not Reflected

When Keke first entered tech—and later, film and television—she rarely saw other Pacific Islanders around her. It could feel lonely. Not because she needed to be centered, but because so few people understood where she came from or what she carried. Much of the time, she held her identity quietly, moving through rooms where it felt easier not to explain.

For years, she worked on projects where she was the only Polynesian from the first day to the last. Call time to wrap. No mirrors. No shorthand. That experience was heavy in ways that are hard to name. She pushed through long hours, little sleep, and moments of doubt knowing she was carrying more than just her role. She was carrying visibility.

Then one day, she stepped onto a set surrounded by Pacific Islanders.

Not just one or two—but people everywhere. Principals. Crew. Faces and voices that felt familiar. People who didn’t need context or translation.

It changed her.

Seeing Pacific Islanders both on screen and behind the scenes filled a space she hadn’t realized was empty. It reminded her what belonging feels like—not as an idea, but as a lived experience.

Representation behind the scenes, she learned, looks like relief. It looks like being understood without explanation. It looks like pride, gratitude, and the quiet certainty that we don’t just deserve to be seen.

We belong here.

What the Job Really Demands

A typical day begins long before call time. Keke prepares carefully—packing and shipping her kit, reviewing schedules, anticipating location changes, and planning for scenes shot out of order.

On set, she is calm and focused.

She tracks details the audience may never consciously notice but would feel immediately if they were wrong. After wrap, there’s more prep, more planning, more responsibility.

Home, Faith, and Grounding

Off set, Keke’s life is intentionally quiet.

Her children are older now. Her support system is steady. She protects her home life because it’s where she resets. Boundaries allow her to give fully to her work without losing herself to it.

Faith anchors her.

Prayer begins and ends her days. During uncertain seasons, faith has meant moving forward without clarity, trusting the path even when answers aren’t immediate.

Lately, grounding has come through cooking—recreating recipes tied to the women she has loved and lost. It’s a way of honoring memory and staying connected to lineage.

Joy today looks like peace.

Creativity, Culture, and Wearing Your Story

Keke’s artistry is shaped by feeling, memory, and story. Her Polynesian heritage doesn’t just influence how her work looks—it guides how it’s carried. She doesn’t create for attention. She creates for truth.

For Keke, wearing your story isn’t about explaining who you are. It’s about honoring it—especially in rooms where it might feel easier to stay quiet. It means carrying where you come from without apology and letting your culture, your struggles, and your growth live in how you move through the world.

To Poly Girls finding their way, her message is simple: you don’t need permission to belong. You don’t need to justify your presence. Walk in knowing that who you are already carries meaning. Protect your integrity. Lead with humility. And when you show up fully, you make it easier for the next girl to do the same.

Wearing your story means staying rooted—even when the path isn’t clear—and trusting that who you are is enough to carry you forward.

THIS is a Poly Girl.

Staying Connected

You can follow Keke’s work and journey here: 

Instagram: @kekevasquez
Website: www.kekevasquez.com