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WHEN I WALKED BY MARIANNA'S Beauty Salon, I always saw Dominican women, their hair the blonde of a lion's mane, frozen as if the wind had come and left it that way, frozen in place with industrial-strength hairspray. Their skin would be brown from summers of going to the D.R., quick dashes of blush across their cheeks like hot pink scars. The window would be smoky from all the steam inside, the hair blow-dried and washed.
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It was Saima's idea. She was an eighth grader at IS 227, and I was only a sixth grader. My mother didn't like her and always said that she would stab me in the back in the end. Saima said all the popular girls ...