Barbie World
My twenties were encumbered with painstaking efforts to treat my blotchy and scarred cheeks after struggling with cystic acne from 17 to 21-years-old (during my college years), a crucial period for evolving and socializing but that I, filled with insecurity and shame, refrained from. I paid for any affordable procedure that could correct my inflammation and scarring post-acne: chemical peels, facials, cryotherapy, microneedling; I invested in serums, exfoliators, and retinols to brighten my dull complexion.
Mami
Our relationship was often at odds because, unlike me, my mother could walk effortlessly into a party, shoulders back, head held high like a dame, drawing people like she was goddamn da Vinci. Everyone was her friend and they would rush over to greet her, exchange gossip, and share in raucous laughter over something or other.
Pelo Malo
I remember the first time I felt pain because it happened when I was four years old, getting my hair straightened by my mother’s friend. The hot comb, which had gingerly hovered inches from my face, suddenly slipped from my hairdresser’s hands long enough to brand me like livestock.
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