“Erandi, it’s time to wake up,” Mamá whispered. Roosters were crowing as the orange and crimson colors of dawn spread across the village of Patzcuaro, in the hills of México.

 

Erandi got out of bed, washed her face, and put on her huipil and her skirt. Then Mamá brushed her hair and wove it into two thick braids that fell to her waist.

 

When Mamá finished, Erandi helped her prepare the dough for the tortillas. As she mixes and patted, Erandi heard the voices from the loudspeakers in the streets. “Hair! Hair! We will pay the best prices for your hair. Come to Miguel’s Barber Shop tomorrow.”

 

“What is that about, Mamá?” Erandi asked.

“It is the hair buyers coming up from the city,” Mamá told her.

“Why do they want to buy our hair?” Erandi asked.

“They say it is the longest and most beautiful in México,” Mamá explained. “They use it to make fine wigs, eyelashes and fancy embroidery.”

 

Mamá looked in the old cracked mirror on the adobe wall. Her own hair fell just below her shoulders.

“Your hair is much longer and thicker than mine. Erandi. The hair buyers would pay a fortune for your beautiful braids,” she said with pride.

 

They finished eating and got ready to go to the lake. Mamá packed their fishing net and put it on her back. “Don’t forget the buckets, Erandi,” she said, starting down the trail.

 

When they arrived at the lake, women and men from the village were already fishing. Erandi’s mother unfolded their net. “Look, Erandi, more holes. I won’t be able to repair it any more. We need a new net very badly.”

After they sorted the fish, separating the small fish from the large fish, they walked home.

 

The next morning after making the tortillas, Mamá said, “It’s time to go to the barbershop.”

Erandi caught her breath.

 

They reached the barbershop and went inside. Erandi looked across the room crowded with women. The line moved slowly as she gazed at the enormous scissors in the barber’s hand. Her knees trembled. But before she could sit in his chair, her mother walked across the room and sat down. Erandi watched the barber wrap the white apron around her mother’s shoulders and measure her hair.

 

“Your hair is not long enough,” she heard the barber say.

Her mother’s face reddened with embarrassment. As they went to leave, the barber noticed Erandi’s braids. “Wait,” he called out, “We will buy your daughter’s hair.”

 

Mamá whirled around. “My daughter’s hair is not for sale,” she said proudly. Then she felt the pull of Erandi’s hand and looked down.

“Sí, Mamá, we will sell my braids,” Erandi whispered.

“No, my daughter,” Mamá said. “We don’t have to sell your hair.”

 

But Erandi let go of her hand and walked toward the chair. The women stared as she climbed up onto the seat. The barber measured her braids and picked up the scissors. Erandi closed her eyes. She felt the metal scissors rub against her face and neck and she heard the sharp snip snip.

 

Erandi kept her eyes shut until the barber had finished. Then she opened them slowly and looked in the mirror. Her hair reached just below the bottom of her ears.

 

Out in the street, the air was cold on the back of her neck. Mamá walked beside her not saying a word. Only the hollow clapping of the huaraches broke the silence of the cobblestone streets.

 

Finally, Erandi peeked at her mother’s face and saw she was crying.

“Don’t worry Mamá, my braids will grow back as long and pretty as before.”

Then Mamá took Erandi’s hand in hers, and as the last rays of the sun lit up the rooftops, they turned and went to the square to buy the new fishing net. 

 

Written by Antonio Hernandez Madrigal