When I was a kid, my mom and auntie would retreat into the bathroom, hands wrapped in latex gloves, newspaper covering the counters and floor as they mixed together a dark, foul-smelling paste in a plastic bowl. For hours, they’d alternately gossip and brush the paste into each other’s hair. When the monthly ritual was done, their gray hairs had been completely vanquished. I, a judgmental know-it-all, would scrunch my nose and say this all seemed like too much effort.
They told me to…
