Romero 10
El Señor Trump Gets a Haircut
He was ten minutes early and I still had to trim the left side of Mr. Gallegos's head. Lupe Gallegos was in his mid-70's and had just suffered from appendicitis caused by sorrow four months ago when his favorite soccer team lost the Mexican championship and had left him unable to come down to the salon. Mildred, Mr. Gallegos great granddaughter, begged me to come to their apartment to cut his hair, but she had neither a Cuban cigar nor holy water to pay me for this complicated burden. I don't do charity. Most people in this barrio are over sixty and would rather not leave their houses. If they found out I'm willing to take my business to their pigpen without demanding a good fat Cuban cigar or a flask holy water, I'd be damned.
I am good at lip reading because that is the number one requirement to become a hairdresser. You always have to pay attention to the mirrors and know what people are talking behind your back, especially mothers and grandmothers, who complain to each other in whispers the way I'm cutting their child's hair. "Lovely" El Señor Trump said to himself when he touched the bamboo flower sprout that was about to blossom near my counter.
He paced around the salon making Mr. Gallegos very anxious. I know this because the old man suddenly started to leak sweat from behind his ears. I told Juana to bring out the mop. His eyes were all over my wall but he wasn't considering which haircut to get because as far as I know he has trimmed his blond - his rubio - hair to the same style since 1927, when I gave him his first haircut. He was less ambitious back then or at least better at hiding it. I am the reason he looks so young now after revealing to him, on one night of drinking barrels of Vanilla Mescal, a skin care remedy my brujita gave to me. I can't say what it is but that it involves papayas, mangos and one Iguana and that not all of these ingredients go on your face.
He had his hands behind his back politely, but I could see in one of the mirrors that he was actually fidgeting anxiously with one of his rings. But for the man who has the busiest schedule in town, there was something very Zen-ish about him, like my neighbor the watchmaker who owns all the time that has been, was, and will ever be and so kindly shares it with the rest of us for free. Or maybe I just thought this because he stood next to my plastic Buddha and fake waterfall near the entrance. In any case, he does seem less neurotic on person than on T.V.
One of his staff members asked me rather aggressively if I was ready. "Hombre, I still have five minutes left with Mr. Gallegos. I'll take care of him soon. Why don'tcha all enjoy some watermelon juice and cookies while I finish okay?" I signaled Juana to bring out the drinks. I never offer to clients anything more than tap water and cigarettes, but the occasion required the investment. I was annoyed. I didn't care how many buildings he owned. He could have owned the fucking Eiffel Tower for all I care, he would still be another customer. Another thirteen bucks. I was also annoyed at Mr. Gallegos's mole on his left side of the skull. It was so proud to be there like an ugly monument. It was the size of a Guava and the reason why he was one of my customers I charged extra for, along with the woman who gardens tulips on her scalp and the red haired boy whose curls are so bright he blinded some folks when he once stood in the sun. I had to let Mr. Gallegos go with the long hair around the mole still intact. I felt ashamed watching him go like that. From the distance, he looked like a unicorn with a horn that had given up on life and was just hanging loose like a corpse from his crown.
"Okay, is it time?" His assistant grunted. I couldn't take him seriously. His lips were rose red from the watermelon juice just like the lipstick of the cross dressers that come out at night. I could tell he wanted to say more but he was biting his tongue and shutting down tight the corners of his mouth. He might have gotten in trouble already for being too blunt with the public. My kid pulls the same stunt. The assistant went back to Mr. Trump and whispered something in his ear and they both shot me a fake smile. I blasted them back with mine. The photographers outside went wild with this. Por Dios, what a freak show. I immediately ordered Juana to close the blinds because I was running late that morning and I didn't get a chance to put any make-up on.
"Okay Mr. Trump, I'm ready." I guided him to station number four, our least worn-out chair, just gotten five years ago.
"I see you still have the Chinese pot I gave you," he said.
"Of course! You know how much I like it."
"And how is Paco?"
My son had just gotten expelled for making a graffiti of a mule that has the face of the principal. The principal had acquired a rare condition that really turned his body in that of a mule, but it was where he drew the graffiti, in the school gymnasium, that had gotten him in trouble.
"He is fine. He just got a scholarship for art."
"Ah! An artist! Fine kid you got there Vilma, fine kid, send him my most sincere congratulations." He motioned to Juana for a glass of water. Mr. Trump, or Donnie, as I would call him more than a half a century ago when he wasn't such a pendejo, was back to being a stranger to me. Or more like an enemy. But his hair hadn't aged a day, which I found concerning. Someone told me this hair, this dry insipid haystack, had an insurance policy of one million dollars, so it made me nervous to be so close to it. I felt I was standing in a museum next to an obnoxious good-for-nothing piece of crap they call contemporary art.
I lit a cigarette to relax.
"You mind?" I asked
"Nope." He raised his eyebrows and pouched his lips and lingered in this facial expression like a baby who is surprised by his own fart.
I knew exactly why he was here and he knew I knew. But he also knew why I opened my doors to him. Still, unlike his assistant I couldn't keep my mouth shut. Sue the Latina in me.
"So what can I do for you today?"
"You know the drill"
"Tell me Donnie-"
"Mr. Trump"
"Mr. Trump. Aren't you afraid of me? Being so vulnerable around an armed Mexican?"
"Oh come on V, don't tell me you believe that shit on T.V. It's a spectacle! And scissors are hardly a weapon." He laughed.
"They are if I stab your neck with them." I caressed his chin with the scissors and he seemed to enjoy this. "Tell me somethin' Don- Mr. Trump, did you ever think how I would react when you called us rapists and drug dealers? How Paco would feel? He always looked up to you."
His bodyguards were moving closer to me. Silence reigned for a few seconds and all we could hear was Shakira's voice, who was playing Waka Waka on the radio. Donnie motioned them to stop.
"Just do your job, Vilma. You know I've always had a big mouth. Just like you."
"I'm giving you a hard time my sweet Donnie. Isn't that my job?" Trump smiled at me, this time it was genuine. My job was not to cut his hair. I hadn't cut it in years. His hair had its own entourage of barbers, hairdressers, stylists, nutritionists, photographers and dermatologists all residing in Trump tower floor 56. All white males. My job was to entertain him, drink shots of Tequila and tell the press that this rubio has been a loyal customer for years and that he loves the Hispanic community, which is true. If you are a sassy pear-shaped dark haired Latina with a great rack and a futon, oh he'll love you very much indeed. Mi querido Donnie.
"I don't think this was a good idea Mr. Trump." His assistant said but Trump just scolded him with his stare. When the assistant went away, Donnie took the cigarette of my fingers, looked at me right in the eye and said, "You are as spicy as ever, guapa."
He remembers. I'm screwed. He remembers how much I love to hear him speak Spanish. It brings me to my knees faster than I can say Ave Maria Purisima. Donnie speak Spanish to me, let me take you in like the Holy Communion.
"You look good without make-up. You look fuerte, guapa. Tough but beautiful. Like a diamond. Now, how do you say that- dayamente?"
"Diamante."
"Diamante." He whispered back. Even with Shakira belting on the radio, the room suddenly seemed very quiet. I couldn't help but to give him a big stupid smile. I looked at Juana through the reflection in defeat. In response, she pulled out a bottle of Peach Mescal that my ancestors have been brewing for seven centuries, when peaches were first invented by crossbreeding fruits that no longer exist.
We had two shots each at once.
"Do you miss me?" I said as we took our third shot. He fidgeted with his ring again.
"No," he replied. I knew he was lying because he made that face I hate so much, the one with a double chin. It is in this second chin where he keeps his secrets. You can't fool me papi.
Another shot.
"Yeah. Me neither," I said.
Another shot.
"So you want a buzz cut?"
"Just cut it all off. I haven't seen my skull since I was a baby"
"Mmm please, you were born with this dirty old rug over your head Donnie, you know it."
We laughed like old times. Peach Mescal does that to you. Apart from getting you shit-face wasted almost immediately, it'll give you an attack of giggles. When you are sad and crying, sleeping, making love, and even dying, you'll be laughing. I guess I forgot to mention this to Donnie, or maybe not, maybe I did warn him. I was so drunk I can't remember that day too well. All I remember – and each time I go over it in my mind it plays in slow-motion - was fixing clipper number one to my trimmer and giving him the buzz cut I was previously joking about. His delicate and fragile golden mane danced in the air all around us, dazzling the sunshine that came in through the blinds. It was more beautiful than fireflies at sunrise. It blessed on all of us like newlywed rice. What a fiesta! His entourage had gasped in horror the moment the trimmer touched his scalp, but Donnie was laughing so hard and was so wasted they thought it's what he wanted, so they just stood by and watched. Eventually even they got infected with laughter too.
Juana brought out more watermelon juice and biscuits.
"You… you bitch!" He eventually managed to mumble in between giggles. My torso felt it was about to snap in two from laughing too hard. I didn't feel like laughing anymore but I couldn't help it. I knew I had done something terrible because it revealed a squared shape skull that was never meant to be seen.
"Donnie! I'm very, I'm oh so sorry! Perdoname Donnie. I can fix this!"
"You Mexican bitch!" I was more offended by the word 'Mexican' than 'bitch' "You better fix this NOW! Or…."
"Or what?" Donne threatening me was one of the most hurtful things I've experienced.
"Or…" He crawled across the floor to one of his staff members in agony of both joy and wrath. His hair sticking to his pant like beggars. He clutched his hands on his stomach as he cracked up and grabbed a luggage from one of his assistants who looked terrified at the emptiness of his boss's skull. Donnie opened the luggage and inside were Cuban cigars thick as eggplants and a little flask of Holy water with an emblem of the Vatican. My usual payment. "Or I'll shit all over this luggage and close your business! Comprendes?"
Even though I was laughing, I looked at Juana with dread but she just took a gulp of watermelon juice and looked away.
"Okay mijo, come 'ere Donnie, stop being so dramatic you are too ugly to be a telenovela actor."
His bodyguard lifted him up from the floor like a damsel in dismay. For a very brief moment, the few golden locks that were still swaying in the air created a halo around his face. He was sweating and bald and had so much pain in his eyes I thought I was seeing baby Jesus himself. I needed to fix it, somehow, for good ol' times and the misery I put him through.
"So- do something! Are you just going to stand there like an idiot until my hair grows back!?"
That wasn't such a bad idea. It was the only idea I had.
"I…. Donnie lemme think" my throat starting to tense "Maybe if we-"
I heard a loud noise behind me.
"VILMA YOLANDA RAMIREZ DE LA SAGRADA CONCEPCION! What have you done to my great-grandfather?" Mildred yelled. Mr. Gallegos's great granddaughter was babysat by a parakeet from age six to ten and therefore was incredibly stupid, loud and had no manners at all.
The crowd of reporters was so saturated outside they had to sneak in from the back store window. Mildred had probably slipped into the trash because she had a piece of watermelon skin in between her mosquito bite-like tits. Mr. Gallegos's hair around his mole was still there. It had even grown a few inches longer as it does on men who have suffered a disease triggered by sorrow, and was now reaching his knees.
"Mildred, now is not the time."
"Now is the only time Vilma, you fix my papu's hair or I'll tell the whole world you just ruined this gringo's hair." She was a manic woman "That's right, we've been listening for a while and you know me Vilma, I'll throw a brick through that glass front and I'll yell and yell that you fucked real hard Donald Trump's one million dollar hair!" She is just like a goddam parakeet.
"Juana. Prep Mr. Gallegos please."
"You are quite something else. How old are you?" Mr. Trump asked her with a smirk.
"I'm underage years old," Mildred snapped.
"I see," While Donnie asked Mildred if she'd be interesting in campaigning with him in El Paso, Texas, Juana and I tried to glue the blond hair back to his head with a mixture of honey and Aloe Vera. It would stick but it stilled looked off and strange and almost sad. It had lost its texture and composition. The tips of the hair were no longer curious but seemed punished the way they stared at the floor and the color… oh, what a shame. I prayed to Saint Pio de Pietrelcina who received stigmata most of his life to bless my hands so that with one touch I could make Donnie's hair grow back. If he accepted my prayer I would no longer gossip, sacrifice baby rabbits with my brujita and I would also maybe stop smoking. With all the faith I could muster I pressed my palms against Donnie's cubic head and recited the St. Anthony performer of miracles prayer, the more saints I could invoke the merrier.
"Vilma" Mildred whispered.
"Hush! Callate la boca and behold!"
"For fuck's sake Vilma! Don't go all religion and shit on me now," Trump shouted.
"Vilma look!" Mildred yelled. Trump's head was still bald but Mr. Gallegos's wasn't. He was reading an article in the newspaper, bawling because his favorite soccer team was splitting up. His sorrow had made his hair reach the ground and in every direction. Juana, Mildred and I got to work immediately. I did the hardest part, cutting the hair around his Guava sized mole that we believe, was supplying the hair with nutrients and vivacity. Mildred dipped the grey color hair in a bowl that contained yellow dye and all of our wedding gold rings. Juana would then glue it to Mr. Trump's hair with the honey and Aloe Vera mixture.
The entourage had been working so hard in the previous months they all took advantage of the time to call their loved ones in this moment of crisis. We were done in twenty minutes and when Donald Trump stood up and they got to see him, they all gasped in adoration. I'm not sure if it was the dye, or the wedding rings, or the honey, or the aloe vera or Saint Pio de Pietrelcina that had made his scalp into a wonder.
When Donnie walked by the bamboo sprouts they blossomed. Juana was a mess, she couldn't stop crying and confessed to him every sin from the previous week to which the Trump said "My child, worry thy not anymore and let me bear thy cross." She immediately fainted. Mr. Gallegos's sorrow was healed and so was Mildred's stupidity who had placed my pink towel around her head like a mantle and had promise Donnie to follow him to El Paso, Texas.
Before he stepped out, Donnie looked at himself once more in the mirror and his new hair was so striking, his own reflection only shed a tear.
He looked back at me and said, "Vilma, you'll be rewarded both in this world and the next one." One of his entourage bow down and presented me with the suitcase of Cuban cigars and holy water.
"Thanks Donnie. Don't be a stranger okay?" Mi sweet querido Donnie. Please visit me more often.
He smiled. His bodyguard opened the door and he immediately merged into one with the blinding flashes, with the white light, from cameras.
I haven't worried about a lack of money, Cuban cigars or holy water ever since.