The time has come...the moment that I have both feared and desperately longed for - for quite some time. She is so beautiful. I’m talking about Esperanza - at the beauty salon Tijeras de Oro in Elizabeth, NJ. I can’t even look at her - she is so breathtaking.

  She has finally busted me. I’ve been peering at her through the picture window of the salon for at least two weeks now - trying to jump out of view when she looks my way. I’m 16 years old and it’s 1976. She continues to look my way with a smile and wiggles her finger for me to come in. I want to turn and run. I want to make up some excuse about having to go - yet I yearn to go in there too. Paralyzing conflict knots up my whole body. I feel like I’m the Scarecrow from The Wizard Of Oz. My body is jerking all over the place. My left foot headed away, my right foot headed towards her - what a mess!!

 I somehow orchestrate my extremities into making it to the front door, as she opens it up to invite me in. Instantly, it’s like I have crossed the threshold into another dimension. A strange, exotic, secret world. The first thing to rock my senses is the distinctive aroma filling the air. A sultry mix of hairspray, perfume, and cigarette smoke. The powerful hint of alcohol stings my olfactory senses. A feeling of awe and reverence fills my body, making me feel even more lightheaded. There are lights everywhere. Bright bulbs surround the mirrors in front of the barber chairs. Rapid-fire chattering in Spanish, loud tittering, clicking heels, snapping gum and blaring Puerto Rican music congeals into an enchanting, yet insanely intimidating cocktail.

  Then I notice everyone in there smiling and laughing with anticipation.

These are women - not girls. They smell differently - each bearing their own particular scent and perfume. I gulp as I look around wide-eyed, trying to force some moisture into my depleted mouth and lips.

                        “Ay papi, come te llamas?” She asks in a lilting tone.

                        “What?”

A second of confused silence.

                       “No hablas Espanol? Papi?”

                       “Espanol? No...um...I don’t ...speak Spanish….”

                       “Oh baby - I thought you was Boriqua…”

                       “What?”

                       “I thought you was Puerto Rican - no?”

                       “Where you from, papi?’

                       “Um….here.... well...I mean, from Brooklyn…”

                       “Ay - what are you - Italian?”

                       “Yeah. Sicilian.”