Hair tells family secrets， like lips and skin：

    my chestnut curls and waves that intractable

    thicket—one month‘s tropical growth—

    Mamá called maleza de manigua，

    jungle scrub.  What will the neighbors think？

    Locked in the bathroom， I brushed hard

    against the grain—pig bristles， nylon quills，

    chrome needles， nothing tamed

    my guava bush， not even the wire brush

    Papá used for mange of rust.

    I rubbed sores with Mamá‘s alcohol

    and iodine （mixed in squirt

    bottles to disinfect the house of ghosts）。

    Prune this wild boy， Mamá told the barber

    as she pulled my hair， grimacing， red fingernails

    drawing blood.  Cajoling the cranky

    pedal with grease， Luis el barbero pumped

    up the chair he‘d bought at a Hialeah

    junkyard， strop stained by rain； la barbería squeezed

    between a butchershop and cigar factory—

    "America， Love It or Leave It" macramé nailed

    above hooks where viejos hung canes， Panama hats.

    I slumped angrily， shoe kicking foot rest，

    hands clenched under white shroud， plastic Virgin Marys

    scowling at me for hating Mamá。  Luis thinned

    the bush with toothed shears， straight razor hacked

    outer growth as Mamá reminded him

    my abuelos were Spaniards—her Catalan father‘s

    eyes between gray and blue， Roman nose，

    his brother‘s hair just like mine， curlier even.

    Tío Octavio looked Semitic， Mamá said，

    you‘d think he was Henry Kissinger.

    Fat and bald， back hairs brushed up like cockatoo‘s

    crest， Luis shook his head， eyebrows raised，

    smiling like someone who‘s heard this before.

    Any hair‘s better than none， se？ora， any hair