Short Story: Frizz

Frizz

To my Tía Emi, flowery phrases like don’t judge a book by its cover were just polite statements that excused ugly people. From head to toe, who you were as a person reflected in the quality of your appearance. And starting at the head meant taming the locks that rested upon it. Tía’s hair was always pulled tight into a sleek black ponytail. The harshness of her slicked-back hair made her forehead seem bigger, eyebrows longer, and her smile strain to reach her eyes. But maybe her smiles weren’t so big anyway—or at least I hadn’t earned the opportunity to see them.

We had a routine morning race in Tía Emi’s household. While the rest of the city was still sleepily waking up, Tía was rushing to the bathroom as if daylight reaching her before she was prepared would expose that she was, in fact, human. While Tía tweaked and decorated herself, I drifted light as dust through the apartment making breakfast for my monster and me. I didn’t want to be heard lest the daily battle begin early. It was the day before my first communion, so I knew Tía would be especially on edge. Tomorrow was the first of many days I was expected to teeter with streaky, shiny-white church shoes toward what it meant to be a girl. Tomorrow, I was expected to be pretty.

I threw open the windows. My monster liked to eat sun rays and drink up the moisture from the humid air outside. Tía usually only drank a cup of black Bustelo coffee for breakfast. I just liked cereal.

When Tía came out of the bathroom—her face now on—one look at me made her tight features visibly clench. She sighed and began rolling her shoulders and neck like she was preparing for a boxing match. My monster bristled, puffing itself up in defense of the fight.

“Titi,” I whined through a mouthful of Chex. “Leave it alone today. Please?”

She just shook her head. “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” she said, her words slow and overly enunciated to fight back her accent. “It’s rude. Now, look up so I can see this thing.”

Tía Emi fiddled with the straps of her camisole. She wore a blue one that day. Those tops were usually only used as undershirts for most women, but my Tía liked to pick and choose what features she covered up.

“Such a cochina,” she pulled my head toward her. “Making me look like a bad Títi who can’t keep a child clean.”

Cochina. A word for a filthy, ugly little girl. That’s what Tía called me. Because Tía Emi hated the frizz monster that lived in my hair.

My frizz monster was a beast of coiled, angry curls. Tía Emi would beat at it with brushes and pins, but those were its favorite snacks. She’d spray detanglers and conditioners, but it just spat those out. Frizz monsters only have a taste for hot, damp sweat; the kind you get from a full day of playing outside in the sun’s loving heat. Tía Emi didn’t allow those days often. Little girls shouldn’t be roughhousing, that was boy behavior.

She left me for the bathroom once again. Then, a horrifying tool came into view, the most threatening word of all time printed on the side: Conair. On went the hot flat iron and out came the hisses of my monster, crackling its cries from being burned alive.

I hated days like this. All it did was cause my monster to make those nasty squealing noises live lobsters did when plunged into boiling water, which annoyed Tía since not only was my frizz getting frizzier in its hysteria, but it was also talking back too.

The flashes of heat pressed phantom itches onto my ears, but I knew if I attempted to soothe the feeling, Tía Emi would flick my fingers. She always warned me that if I scratched them once the itch would only get itchier. Only dogs scratch their ears. And Tía Emi doesn’t raise dogs.

“You could be such a pretty girl, monstruita,” Tía said. She loved reminding me of this, especially when nothing worked against the frizz. So she went to her last resort: guilt.

“Your mama was pretty.” She yanked my hair. “Que linda! But she let it go to waste.” Snap! Snap! Snap! I heard her clamping the tongs of her flat iron harder and harder against my monsters squealing fuzz. Tía Emi always got more aggressive when she started talking about her sister, the woman who’d dumped a frizzy child on her and vanished.

I’ve tried to understand in the past what happened between Tía and Mama. But knowing why I couldn’t live with Mama and why she was putting those needles in her arms was “too much” for me, according to Tía. But it wasn’t too much to hold against me.

“Maybe if she stayed pretty,” Snap! “Then maybe your daddy would’ve stayed too.” Snap! Directly onto my little ear.

I screamed. Tía Emi quickly attempted to soothe me, petting her soft hands around my face. Apologies were kissed onto my temples and throbbing ear. But my skin was red enough, I didn’t want her lipstick there too.

I pulled away and her demeanor changed. The soft hands left my face, moving instead to grip my frizz in a clutch full of anger and hot pink acrylic nails.

“If you hadn’t let this monster in, I wouldn’t have hurt you,” she said but I refused to meet her eyes. Her hands let go of my hair, and I heard the sound of the flat iron’s plug forcefully ripped from its socket.

“Get your choes on. We’re going out,'' was all she said before leaving me and my wounded monster alone. I resisted the urge to remind her it was shoes with a shhh sound.

***

Tía Emi was pretty. Men would always say so. They’d coo at her whenever we walked, begging for the flash of a smile from such a lovely woman. Many of them had fingernails caked and dirtied from constant labor, but they called to Tía Emi as if endless wealth lay hidden within their calloused palms.

Mamacita, a dónde vas?

¿Puedo ir yo también, angelita?

¡Sonríe bebita, sonríe!

Ita, Ita, Ita. Spanish was amazing like that. Layering smallness with affection. As if how little you were indicated how cute and pleasing you looked. But Tía Emi was a big adult just like them. So I never understood why they liked to call her otherwise.

Tía Emi always wore heels when we left the house. No matter the length of the walk, there was cheetah on her toes and six inches stemming from her heels. I knew it hurt, but I often wished she’d walk faster when the chorus began. I wished it bothered her more.

We were just going to the drug store, nothing special. But Tía Emi could spend hours perusing the aisles and products of places like that, sniffing out every deal and coupon available. Used to this, I went exploring on my own.

I caught my reflection in the mirror of the cosmetics section. My frizz monster drooped in a mass of loose, unhappy waves instead of its usual bouncy coils. Gently, I pressed my fingers against my scalp and attempted to scrunch my monster back up to its gravity defying glory.

While tinkering with my reflection, I spotted another child lingering behind me. A boy. He had short blonde hair. It looked soft.

I turned and waved. I didn’t meet other kids often, but I wished I could. He wasn’t looking at my face though. Just right above it.

“Do you bite people?” he asked.

“I’m sorry?” I responded. That’s what Tía Emi taught me to say when I didn’t understand what people said. It was more polite than asking “what?” and made your English seem better.

“I once saw a poodle with big hair like yours, but it bit people. Do you bite people?”

I felt my frizz monster deflate again in embarrassment. I just shook my head no.

“Then is it big like that because you aren’t clean? My mommy said not to get too close 'cause people like you are dirty.”

I heard Tía Emi’s heels before I felt her snatch me away. In her basket was aspirin, mint gum, and a little green bottle. Tía Emi always bought aspirin when we went to the store.

As we left Tía told me if anyone ever said that to me again to make sure I left teeth marks hard enough to hurt, but not break skin. Blood can carry disease and make you sick.

I guess it was okay to act and bite like dogs when people accused you of it first.

***

After years of trying to tame my frizz monster, Tía Emi found success in a $3.99 bottle.

The following morning, Tía slathered my hair with a thick layer of oil. Dolled up like a little bride of Christ, I was told I couldn’t face God with a monster on my head. The oil made my frizz choke and weep, smothered by its dampened weight. My neck ached from holding up my defeated hair, drenched in so much liquid it dripped down my face and back. Tía called it “my anointment of beauty” before I was wed off to the Lord; the man whose rules I’d have to abide by for the rest of my life and whose body and blood I’d consume.

I didn’t even have my front teeth yet.

So Tía Emi told me to practice smiling with my mouth closed. It was a good skill for a girl to have anyway.

While I itched in frilly white lace, Tía wore a simple form-fitting black dress. It was the same one she wore to every large event or court meeting we went to. Black’s the best color, she’d tell me, it makes you look smaller. But I always thought Tía looked the same size. To me, black was the color you wore when someone died.

My defeated monster hung heavily on my shoulders as I sat on the closed toilet seat, picking at my fingernails. For a moment I marveled at how little I felt, the space usually occupied by the frizz monster now empty. So badly I wanted to console my frizz, but I knew Tía would flick my hands with her long nails if I did. Bouncing side to side, Tía hummed as she touched up her makeup in the bathroom mirror, occasionally swiping blush onto my own cheeks as I jerked and spat at the bristles. Lovingly, she’d pet the top of my head, combing her hands down to my ears as if admiring her victory in how easy it was to do so.

“Do you like me better like this?” I asked quietly, still picking my fingers. I intended there to be a mean bite to my voice, to make her feel bad, but I just sounded weak and sad. Tía continued absentmindedly petting my weak monster with one hand.

“Neat? Yes, I do.” She replied curtly, reaching down to swipe some of her red lipstick onto my lips. I whined and curled my lips, causing Tía Emi to pinch my nose.

“Oye no whiny girls, I’m tired of the whiny.” She warned me, placing her hand under my chin and forcing my lips to pucker. She always did this too whenever we went out to big things. She always tried to make me look like her.

“Why don’t you like me the other way?” I blubbered, causing Tía to sigh and place the lipstick down.

“I’ve told you cariña—that nasty monster makes you look scary, and me like a bad Titi.” It was the same lecture I’d received time and time again. However, hearing Tía Emi’s words now that my frizz was dead made me wonder: when had I started thinking of my hair as a monster as well, when it had always been my closest companion?

Was I a monster for embracing the feature I’d been born with? Or was Tía the monster in her hatred of it?

Hot tears began to drip down my face, leaving dark tracks down my powdery pink cheeks. Tía sighed again, dropping to her knees and grabbing my shoulders. I noticed she was becoming more and more comfortable touching me.

“I know you don’t like it, but it’s better this way.” she said, pressing thin clumps of toilet paper to my weeping eyes. “And no more crying, you’re too big for that.”

“But why?” I was frustrated with my own repetitive questions, but I truly didn’t know what else to ask. Because why was unhappiness deemed to be better?

“Because we’re women, and we look different.” She said, pulling out a small clip-on veil from the towel closet, “Not looking our best just proves the nasty things they think of us right.”

I didn’t know why I was scared, but I was. I pulled my head down to my knees and covered my scalp with my arms. Tía tutted, pulling to move my elbows. “But why does God care about my looks?” I asked from between my trembling legs.

“It’s respectful to look nice monstruita, He gave up his only son for us to go to Heaven.”

But I never asked Him to do that. I never asked for any of this. My monster was my guardian angel, but according to Tía to be with God meant taking that away. I didn’t care if I was born imperfect in Tía’s eyes. If God made me, He made my monster too.

I couldn’t understand why that wasn’t good enough.

“I don’t respect God, then.” I said angrily. Tía managed to pull my arms free and yanked my body upright, snapping the little veil onto the back of my head. Grabbing my forearm, she briskly walked us to the front door, her tall heels emphasizing every angry footstep as my short ones struggled to follow behind.

“You get over it.” She hissed, ushering me out the front door.

***

With my frizz monster pulled down, men purred when they saw me walking down the street. Que angelita! What a pretty little girl! When I looked like this, their gazes lingered longer on me than they did on Tía Emi. Their stares reminded me of the early mornings, when stray dogs would longingly watch and loiter at the freshly hung meats outside the butcher’s window. It made Tía pull me closer toward her body, her hands tightly gripping mine in a way that was almost painful. As if something threatened to pull me away. Her face remained in its usual tight scowl, though I couldn’t tell who it was intended for.

At the church, Tía left me to the other little girls with their smoothed-down hair that cascaded beautifully down their short backs, tamed in collections of braids, twists, and pins. Together we looked like a line of crafted dolls, ready for display.

At that moment I imagined my frizz monster expanding. Fighting past the oil and covering my body whole. My being, swallowed entirely by a tangled web of big, dark, protective hair. A coiled beast of curls from my head to my feet. Nobody would bother such an odd-looking creature. And I’d much rather be an ugly beast than a little girl.

Like the wolf and little red riding hood. The huntsman is scary no matter what form I take, but at least if I were the wolf I wouldn’t be the one swallowed whole.

But the only protection I really had was a light coating of brown peach fuzz. I ran my fingers through my oily hair and aggressively shook.

“What are you doing to your pretty hair?” I heard a male voice. One of the attendants managing the procession of children noticed my actions.

He was tall. A square face and white spiky hair, but he didn’t seem that old. A medium old, perhaps? I recognized him; he and Tía Emi talked after church every Sunday while I sat and played twist games with my frizz monster. They would laugh, and she would twirl her smooth ponytail around her fingers. He was one of the Sunday school teachers, though I never went.

“What a lovely dress. Was it Emilia’s?” He asked. I nodded. I was nervous. It felt weird hearing Tía Emi’s name like that. Like he was beyond her title.

His hands clasped my shoulders. Big men love to touch and bask in littleness. I see it happen to Tía Emi all the time. But my frizz monster usually makes me undesirable to touch. People don’t ooo and ahh at an “unkempt” child with a monster for hair. Like how you’re taught to not pet a stray dog in case of rabies. I look like I may bite.

I didn’t mind that, though. I was a cochina. I didn’t want to be pleasant to the eyes of others. I never asked to be touched.

But my frizz monster wasn’t waking up.

“That Emilia is lovely.” Oh, “Emilia” would probably do cartwheels if she heard that.

“It must be genetic,” he said softly, petting down the curls I’d just shaken up.

As if hearing her beauty compared to mine summoned her, Tía Emi entered the hall. Guardians weren’t allowed back here before the ceremony, but she probably lied about needing the bathroom or something. In reality, she was likely checking that my monster was still contained. We made eye contact. She saw the big man's hands on me. I wanted her to do something, like she had in the drug store. To whisk me away and protect me, like she was supposed to.

But instead, her lips pursed, and her head moved in a slight, nearly imperceptible nod. She then walked back the way she came. That’s when it hit me. His hands. His attention when I looked like this. My pleasant, choking, demeaning prettiness made big men feel big.

And Tía killing my monster made it happen.

***

Tía Emi’s frizz monster comes out sometimes. When her tears block her sight, and she forgets to close the bathroom door. When her heels are too bloody to ignore, or her cheeks are bruised for momentarily forgetting her littleness with men. She’s too busy scraping the layers of gel from her scalp to know I’m there. Scraping away the tightness. Scraping away the strain. Scraping away the expectations. Her hot pink nails scratch it all away until nothing is left but painful realities and big, angry hair.



I know those nails. I know their hurt.