Conditioner meant untangling time. A wide tooth comb she would start at the ends and work her way up in a soothing rhythm, music lines drawn down my back. It always started tenderly, descrescendo, slowly to unknot. Like a melody of piano, flute, strings and then came the pull, the church organ. “¡Ay!” I’d protested, but I knew the refrán “Quien quiere moños bonitos aguanta jalones ”, implying those who want pretty hair, endure pain. After untangling came la ‘ guela , a moisture treatment for curls. La ‘guela traveled from afar, usually packed in newspaper, sealed in Saran Wrap, a migrant in my tia’s maleta from the Dominican Republic. La ‘guela had traveled far. All natural, dique . Always buena pa’ tu pelo. Smelling like a cinnamon candle left too long, my scalp burned. When we didn’t have ‘guela, my mom would make her own, an old avocado and olive oil. Smelling of fresh salad dressing, sneaking around, sticking my fingers into my hair and licking it. Mmm… just needs salt.
Sundays were wash days for my mom and me.
Boleros floated through the apartment, José José, Julio Iglesias and the other José. Often tristes y dueños de nada, olvidándoses de vivir . In the living room, my father sat in his signature cologne of cafe and Marlboros. Singing along. While Mami crowned my head with a plastic bag so la ‘guela could sweat in heat, making my curls soft, smoother and easier to manage. We were twins then. Same sweaty bag, same silent promise of transformation. From our second floor apartment, laundry hung from cords tied between the back window and the light pole, fluttering secrets across the alley. If my mother caught me hanging underwear, she’d remind me not to make the private public. Just like la ’guela , some things weren’t for everyone to see. A villain to the knot, la ‘guela did her job. After an hour or two, came a baptism in the kitchen sink. By then, my mother had rolos . Setting them herself, she grew from barely five feet to five and a half. Plastic cylinders staked like a crown, the queen of a scented kingdom of cafe and ashtray. Sitting between her legs, each roller a devotion, each pin a counted act of faith in beauty and transformation. Wound tight by sounds of the past, an island of glory. Los rolos, soldiers in formation strong and silent.
HVWP COMMONPLACE 31
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