bleach bautismo


    I cut it, the long strips of curl shaped like zigzag scissors, dull blonde streaks like


    caramel laced through the ends of my almost-but-not-quite-black hair. Surviving


    months of swim pool chlorine and hundreds of Cross Country ponytails, I have clung


    to this hair for over four years. I don’t know if it defines me, or if I define it. Curly,


    definitely curly, although my first year at college has flattened and cooked my


    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    oceanic rulos into ripples in a lake. While she cuts she talks, this amiga latina with large


    hips like a sofa, hair baptized by blonde dye, black wing tips lifting off from the corners


    of her dark brown latina eyes. Washing over me, caressing me with the


    gentle shhhhhh of Castellano: I understand and I don’t. Who am I to cut off the past?


    Who am I not to? She asks what color the new blonde streaks will be: dulce de leche,


    vanilla, musky smoke or cracked-leather blonde? I find myself pointing to the


    platinum, shiny-as-a-new-vintage-record, don’t-look-it-might-blind-you blonde. Light


    as gringa skin dipped in white chocolate, after the summer tan has rubbed off and we


    all resemble Snow White a little. That is too light she says, but I will take this plunge,


    this smell of bleach, this baptism of fire in Buenos Aires.