by Sandra Cisneros
Everybody in our family has different hair. My Papa’s hair is
like a broom, all up in the air. And me, my hair is lazy. It never obeys
barrettes or bands. Carlos’ hair is thick and straight. He doesn’t need to comb
it. Nenny’s hair is slippery – slides out of your hand. And Kiki, who is the
youngest, has hair like fur.
But my mother’s hair, my mother’s hair, like little rosettes, like little
candy circles all curly and pretty because she pinned it in pin curls all day,
sweet to put your nose into when she is holding you, holding you and you feel
safe, is the warm smell of bread before you bake it, is the smell when she makes
room for you on her side of the bed still warm with her skin, and you sleep near
her, the rain outside falling, Papa snoring. The snoring, the rain, and Mama’s
hair that smells like bread.