That morning, before leaving, Sofia was happy. She had gotten up early, took a bath, chose her yellow dress and asked me to help her adjust her hair. Her hair was long, curly, beautiful. For her it was not vanity. It was something she cared for with love, like someone caring for a part of herself.
The night before I took her to a real salon, not to the corner aesthetic where they always cut unevenly. I paid more than I could, but when she looked in the mirror with her defined curls, a side braid and small pearls holding her hairstyle, I understood that she was worth every peso.
“Do you think Vale likes it?”, he asked me.
“You look beautiful, my love. Of course you’re going to like it.”
She also carried a gift she had made: a little box decorated with diamond, full of bracelets that she had knitted during the week.
I left her at Marisol’s house confident. It was my family. My mother Carmen, my father Ernesto, my sister, my nephews. What could happen?
When I got through it, the door opened and Sofia came out.
For a second I didn’t recognize her.
Her hair was gone. Not like before. He had it cut with scissors, uneven, with strands at chin level and others almost attached to his ears. It seemed like someone had torn him apart in rage.
She walked looking at the floor. Her eyes were red, her breathing was short, and her hands were clenched against her dress.
“Sofia… what happened?”
He tried to smile, but broke down.
“They cut it off, mom.”
I felt like the world went out of my way.
“Who?”
