Thelma T. Reyna
I have previously written in La Bloga about the selflessness and profound kindness of my maternal Grandma Guerra, one of my greatest, earliest role models and mentors. To this day, the memory of her inspires me to try to rise to a higher level of humanity. As a young girl, I was keenly aware of how her daily cooking, cleaning, and nurturing in helping my divorced mother care for all of us nine children helped our family to survive.
Repaying Grandma for her immense love was important to me; but, as a young girl without money and material resources, what gifts could I give her? Fortunately, one day she allowed me to do a favor that became a cherished ritual.
For most of her last decades of life, Grandma wore a short, curly hairstyle fittingly called “the poodle.” It was cut and layered above the collar, then permed with two dozen skinny plastic curlers all over her head. I’d been to the hair salon with her a few times and had watched the process. So one day, when Grandma needed a haircut again, I offered to do the “poodle” myself.
At the local drugstore, she paid two dollars for a do-it-yourself perm kit called Toni, and another dollar or so for a plastic bag of curlers. At her home, I placed an old towel around her narrow shoulders, took a deep breath, and snipped away. We both endured the strong chemical smell of the perm as it wafted through her small house. In a couple of hours, we were done. I shampooed Grandma’s hair in her tiny sink, sat her down in a kitchen chair, and styled her new ‘do.
I’ll never forget the smile on her face when she looked in her mirror. She gazed proudly at her reflection, turning this way and that, and immediately reached for her powder compact and patted her nose and face to complete the look of a woman about to go out on the town. In the comfort of her own home, Grandma had gotten her “poodle.” She saved quite a bit of money and was grateful. So was I.
Until I married and moved to California from our native Texas, cutting and perming my Grandma’s hair was a yearly ritual for us. And always, her joy in the completed job was as unadulterated and convincing as the first time. In this ritual, we chatted about family, about her childhood, about friends and neighbors, about my college dreams, about life and everything. I learned much about Maria Treviño Guerra, this woman who grew up in a poor dusty ranch and never attended a school, who helped raise me, who sewed clothing for me, who cared for my firstborn child while I attended graduate school, who cooked countless meals for us, and who tended to my illnesses.
When I grew up, I bought gifts for her and gave her money from my college jobs. But I knew that spending time with her and personally doing things for her counted more. So I went with her to doctors’ appointments, took her grocery shopping, and wrote letters to far-flung family members in her behalf.
But without fail— gently cutting, perming, and styling her hair, listening attentively to her reminiscences, and pampering her as she was treated to “a day at the salon” gently convinced her of my dedication to her. I paid back her love and kindness in my own small way, and this meant more to her than any fancy gift could ever relay.
