Photo by Carlos Aristizabal
When I was a kid, I had two goals:
To be as tall as Brooke Shields (gracing all the fashion magazines at the time) and sport Farrah Fawcett’s signature hairstyle. Obviously, height aspirations were out of my hands — albeit I did relinquish precious recess time with my pals to hang on the pullup bar of my elementary school’s playground in the hopes of stretching myself out (my 5’4” stature signals that didn’t quite work). But, under the vision and aptitude of a skilled hairdresser, looking like Farrah Fawcett seemed feasible.
To assist with my transformation, I’d solicit the help of Lupe, the middle-aged, stocky woman bearing a thick Basque accent who had been trimming, shaping and blow-drying my mother’s thick, wavy silver locks for as long as I could remember. She reigned over a buzzing salon on the northeast side of Caracas crammed with women sitting patiently in dryer chairs or donning neon-pink curlers in the hopes of attaining the same fashionable look the hottest local soap opera star or regal beauty queen sported.
And while Farrah lived almost six thousand miles away, everyone knew her: that electric smile, the all-American good looks and, of course, enviable mane, had captivated Venezuelans who made sure not to miss the hit television series “Charlie’s Angels,” known to us by its Spanish title, “Los Angeles de Charlie.” (For the record, Farrah Fawcett sounded amazing in Spanish.)
For the bulk of my early childhood, my mother had served as my hairdresser, plopping a dented red salad bowl over my head and trimming cautiously around its border resulting in a ‘do that seemed to be a nod to The Beatles, whose songs occasionally made a radio appearance between more popular Bee Gees and Air Supply tunes. As I grew older, so did my intolerance with my mop-top, and in my first prepubescent act of rebellion, I refused Mom’s hair scissors, opting to grow my hair out until it was hopelessly long and in desperate need of styling — eventually leading me to Lupe.
“Así, como ella,” I instructed Lupe with the confidence a young girl hoping for stardom could muster. I pointed at the well-worn page of Farrah donning a cute tennis outfit, apparently her “latest look” for that summer.
“Ah, yes, she is so pretty — just like you,” Lupe added, before beginning to coax my hair into Farrah’s signature feathered look.
It was a simple process, really, something that took less than an hour to do. When she was done, Lupe held up a mirror, providing a 360-degree view of my perfectly coiffed hair. I smiled, enjoying how my familiar features now dazzled with a touch of celebrityhood.
Lupe placed her hands on my shoulders and leaned toward me with an effusive smile that lit her whole face.
“Bella!” She belted out, adding, “Just like a movie star.”
Looking back, I understand clearly how Lupe’s praise was as powerful as her skill in cutting hair. I may not have transformed into the movie star I adored, but I left the salon feeling beautiful and walking a little taller, excited to greet the world with an extra dose of spunk.
Happy Reading!
Alona Abbady Martinez
alona@bocaratonobserver.com