The Intractable Lessons of Bad Hair

Abstract

The effort it took to set everyone in motion for another day in her tightly run guest house, the small but cumulative irritations provoked by tasks undone or carelessly done, and the mounting heat of the ten o'clock sun, had forced her to stop. She dragged a rocking chair in the shady section of the back porch, fell into it, tilted her head, and closed her eyes. Across the porch and under the shade of an old mango tree, my sister Rose and I were recreating, in our improvisational games, the unfolding drama of adult life. That day, we were busy buying and selling small piles of twigs, leaves, and sand. Tucking my skirt between my legs, just as I had seen women in the market do, I crouched among my wares neatly stacked on projecting roots of the mango tree. Rose, with one hand on her hip, bent down to inspect the merchandise she wanted to buy. How much are you asking for this bunch of she asked. Thirty cents, I answered. Thirty cents for that small pile? Hmmm, I guess you don't really want to sell your tomatoes. Well, what do you suggest I sell them for? Look how soft they are. They're only worth ten cents. cents?! Get your hands off my tomatoes! Ten cents! You think I stole these tomatoes? Ten cents! You've got some nerve! If you had offered me twenty... I'll give you fifteen and not a penny more. You know I'm paying too much for the tomatoes. That's highway robbery... but, here, take 'em.