Friday mornings were times to get ready for the party weekend ahead. La vecina would yell from the window: "Mira, y cuando me vas hacer el pelo?" We knew that this truly meant: "Mira, tú me vas hacer el pelo para que mi marido me siga amando!" Women in the neighborhood understood this code of survival: keeping your peliquera close to keep your man closer. Dominican women’s routines on Friday mornings consisted of a cafesito, mangú y salami y un merenguito to awaken the new morning. In Washington Heights, many of the women lived near a bodega and a salon where the peluquera had enough sense not to lay chicken grease on your hair. Those unfortunate enough to live in The Bronx sought other methods of beauty enhancement. The Bronx store owners ranged from African braids and sow ins to Puerto Rican shape ups. My sisters and I had to travel to our beloved Wash Heights. Getting your hair done was a full day occasion and we wanted to be as efficient as possible. Once we had our sweep of buenos días and como está tu mamá, we sat for a thorough washing. After a brutal untangling and rolling of our hair, off we went to the hair dryer for an hour and a half. We sat through the salon's usual activity: pirated CD sales, fresh pastel en hoja and pastelitos, and angry women yelling on their phones at their no good pendejo kids and the men that refuse to care for them. I will not be able to understand the importance of these hair sessions until after I left New York City. The incredible love the peluqueras had for us was immeasurable. They were a tribe of women training other women the ethics of love, family, friendship and money.
Sweating for an hour makes a girl angry and hungry so by the time the hour struck, I was ready to get my ears burned off by my girl Fidia. Fidia was a woman you did not mess with; running the business with a careful and stern glare. She was adorned with two armfuls of bracelets, which clanged against your head with each movement. Watching the other women style their hair was an art exhibit. The heat of the tenesa would rise, rise the static of our cries each day to awaken the hour. The most surprising of all was the secrecy of our family with those women. Although Mami never shared openly about her personal life, Dominican women knew how much we struggled. We were unique, unlike other Dominicans. We went once every few months to press our monsters, relax our nerves and wash away paychecks that were not even ours. Beauty came at a cost, para verse bella tiene que aguantar halónes is often what Mami preached. The time bonding with these strange figures of homes was so special and important to any Dominican girl attempting to preserve the little culture we had in New York City.
By the time I was 13, I knew who killed who, who owed money to whom and which sucio was fucking la vecina. My sisters did not speak very much but the peluquera loved to engage us, probing information out of us like a detective. We only spoke when the blower got too be to hot to bear.
Midday brought in the gringas who showed up from their 9-5 jobs for a lunchtime pampering. I never understood how it could possibly take fifteen minutes to wash and blowout hair. Shit, to sit my ass down in the chair was a 15 minute process! Unfortunately, Dominican women never let the gringas wait too long. They were always seated quickly, given water accompanied with many broken english “would you like” and “how short.” I hated when gringas came into the salon because I was jealous of such care. Peluqueras never ate when they styled gringas and the professionalism given could have passed for decent bullshit. Much to my annoyance, half my hairstyles was pernil juices nourishing my hair strands. Yet, I always finished with a polished look unmeasured by the plain styles of the gringas. Gringas made everyone uncomfortable. They never spoke to the peluqueras, they merely pointed and gestured. On the other hand, when the morenas came in for a style, clients and stylists alike were afraid. You did not want a morena angry because she will not hesitate in tearing shit up! La morena always came with the same request: "can I have a wash and set?" They always came in hesitant and left happy, which is why they kept coming back. Una Dominicana will burn the shit out of your hair but your hair is pressed for two weeks.
There was always beef though in the Latina caste system: Mexicans were never allowed through the doors, unspoken rules prohibited it and Dominicans always first. The Puerto Rican gets cursed out of the salon, the Brazilian was given extra praise and the Columbian never came. That was and still is how Washington Heights operates.
From that point on, I was curious about the world of other salons. When I moved to Baltimore for University, I never stepped foot in a salon because there was no one that looked like me or whose hair texture resembled my own. My senior year of college and my impending graduation reminded me of my desperate need for a haircut. I did not seek black salons because they serve a clientele unlike me. Asians did not own any salons and Dominican salons were hard to come by. So, I was referred by a curly haired professor at my University about her salon. Upon entering, there was soft music; no merenguito, no empanadas. I had never been given a cut by a white person. Nonetheless, a white man. I missed the laughter and chisme and warm smell of habichuela con dulce. I knew I was fetished when the stylist commented that he wished his clients were more interesting and exotic like me. The feverish excitement my curls brought his eyes frightened me. He was a reminder that I was just another object he was not able to straighten and colonize. Each lock of my hair that fell on the ground felt like a sacrifice, a clipping away at an identity that could not be held, to a white man who did not know anything about how to care for my hair. Since then, I have discovered my Dominican spot. Today, I do not depend much on salons however, those seldom visits remind me of Friday mornings in Washington Heights at the prime of womanhood.
