Pretty Ugly

When you was a child, your father hated for people to say that you pretty. He think you would grow up and feel you too nice. Rose Singh rolled long partitions of beauty salon red hair into large, hard pink rollers. She kept her bobby pins between her teeth while Trinity, her eight year old daughter, handed her the curlers. Rose stood before the bathroom mirror, clad in her torn, baby blue nylon nightgown although it was noon. Trinity sat on the sink, her feet resting on the pink porcelain of the tub.
So am I pretty Mummy? The child wanted to know. She thought her mother pretty and wanted to be like her. Her mother wore flowing dresses, high-healed shoes and always had her hair immaculately done. Her black roots never showed. Her mother shone with pride when people mistook her for Puerto Rican. It meant that she was not black.
Her mother shrugged her shoulders. Well, you are not as pretty as I was when I was your age. My head wasn’t as hard as yours—you get your father's hard head. She gave her daughter a look akin to contempt and her weak smile did not help. Besides for the picky head, and you are a bit too dark—but yes, I would say you are pretty. Trinity turned her little body around and looked at her mother's reflection in the mirror. Yes, she knew her mother was pretty. Her mother continued nonchalantly to roll her hair. Trinity looked at her own small face and triumphantly, despite her mother, thought herself beautiful.