Garcia was not usually a jealous man: he always had nice things, or no things, to say about his rivals and contemporaries. He was not vain, nor did he generally covet others’ women.
But he always wanted straight hair. How he envied Mrs. Donna Jean’s rapunzelian locks, geometry-class straight and swaying in time with her white-girl easy skank. To and fro it went; Garcia’s big bush just sat there. It would wiggle a little. Vibrate along with speakers.
It was coarse and low-class hair, Garcia cried at night. Dammit, it was Dollar Store hair, two-week extension on the utility bills hair! His hair had no privilege: it had clawed and scraped its way up the dark and bloody streets of the Tenderloin, down the hungry back alleys of the Wharf. His hair could never be presented to society.
Someone called Garcia’s hair “nappy” once, and Garcia hit him, meaning Garcia had Parish hit him.
Sometimes late at night in a hotel room still smoldering, Garcia would tie a white towel around his head and fend off imaginary suitors for his blonde charms.