La Peluquería

On my seventh birthday,

my tía took me to the

beauty salon to get an

alisado. It’s time that you

got rid of that pelo malo,

she winked like a full

moon stretching above the

sky. Her friend Puchi stirred

a white creamy concoction

and smeared it over my

scalp like flowering foreign

watercolors. How long must

it stay on? Just until it binds

the curl. But what I heard

was until oppression flattens

me like cardboard constellations

and makes me burn my

history like inkblots of

pretzeled fists. Just think

of what you are going to

look like. In their minds, I

am wearing a headdress

of glass layers that stays in

place and refuses to rise

in humidity. In their world,

my hair is no longer a Greek

tragedy or bad penny tossed

into the gutter. It is a parable

of dignity, an escape route from

being just another brown girl.