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THE MAGICAL MEETING 7/20/2020 9:36:39 PM
16 year old Joey Montaperto actually meets the breathtaking Esperanza for the first time! 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 in 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.”
