Tiger, Tiger by Margaux Fragoso Page B

go.”
    “My hair isn’t tangled anymore!”
    “Let’s go. You be good. Afterwards, I will buy ice cream. I will get you a toy. Come on.”
    “No, I’m not going!”
    He grabbed my arm and pulled. “Let’s go!”
    “Please! Don’t cut it!”
    “You want to make trouble for me. You want to humiliate me,” he said in a low voice. “You want me to be the talk of this town. Do you see the people looking?”
    By now, I was in a full-fledged tantrum, crying and begging and stamping my feet against the cement.
    He pointed to a few teenagers passing Union Hill High. “Look at them looking at you.”
    We were standing in front of the building and I could see Good Fellows Barber Shop right across Hudson Avenue at Thirty-eighth Street. I thought of biting Poppa’s hand and running all the way to Peter’s, but I knew Poppa was faster than I was.
    “Why are you doing this to me?” I screamed. “Why? Why are you doing this?”
    He let go of my hand and we stood facing each other. “You. You. I’m ashamed to be seen on this street. Let them talk; they are talking about you. Let them laugh; they are laughing at you. Not me. You are the one making a fool of yourself on a public street. Now I see what that house has done to you. You have been going to that house for a year now, and the effects on your temperament are not good. You are turning against me. Tell me”—he lifted my chin and stared into my eyes—“tell me: what has that house done to you? If you do not listen to me, your father, I will make you sorry. You will cry; you will really cry when I take the privilege of that house away from you. I know you will cry then because that is all you care about. So you better watch it.”
    I began to walk, and he took my hand again.
    “Good,” he said.
    While we waited for a hairdresser, neither Poppa nor I flipped through the magazines that were scattered on the small end table. Poppa clutched my hand, his leg jittering. I was afraid to talk to him at first, but then I said, softly, “Poppa, not much, please?”
    “I will tell them to take off a little. You have split ends. It needs to be done.”
    “Just a little? You promise?”
    “I promise nothing. These women are experienced; they know exactly what to do. I am a man; I know very little about hair. I will tell them to use their judgment.”
    “Poppa, you said you would tell them a little! Now you’re saying something different!”
    “You better not start up,” he said, squeezing my hand. “You better not humiliate me.”
    I was silent, until he released the pressure from my hand. “Okay, but can I tell you something? School is coming soon; the other girls all have long hair. I’m the only one in school with short hair; they make fun of me. If you have them take off too much, I am really going to, it’s going to, I mean, I am . . .” I cleared my throat and concentrated on not crying. “I am going to suffer, Poppa. It’s hard looking different from everybody else. I want to look like all the other girls. I have to look like them, or they’ll laugh at me. They’ll call me a freak and ugly.”
    He didn’t say anything.
    “Do you hear me, Poppa?”
    He still didn’t say anything.
    “I am going to suffer, Poppa.”
    “I will tell them just a little bit. If this makes you happy, I will tell them just a trim, okay?” He squeezed my hand, this time in a friendly way, and I was relieved.
    A hairdresser with long white nails and a fluffy perm dressed me in the wide smock and led me into the shampooing room, where I lay back in the reclining leather seat, allowing my hair to fall into the basin filled with warm water. After the shampooing, I was led to the large swivel chair in front of the big, clean mirrors. I saw hairspray bottles, fancy combs, and brushes and hair dryers. Vidal Sassoon, Aqua Net. Poppa talked to the woman in Spanish.
    “How much did you tell her, Poppa?”
    “I told her to get rid of the split ends. Do not move while she does