Sweet home Hialeah

South Floridians love to use Hialeah as a punchline. And I get it. The city has a bad reputation for harboring corrupt politicians and nosy neighbors, as a haven for cheap rents and illegal workers, and as the home of the tackiest and loudest Cuban immigrants of the entire diaspora.

This place is so special that it only has one major street and outsiders still manage to get lost.


Oh those outsiders. They think they can spend a few hours in the “City of Progress,” and then feel entitled to criticize and point fingers.

This weekend, I encountered one of “those” people – a pretentious beauty salon patron who wanted to lighten her hair, but didn’t necessarily want to go “Hialeah blonde.”

She said this loudly in an attempt to garner laughter. But when her punchline didn’t receive the clamor she was expecting, she tried it again, “Not a Hi-a-leah blonde,” this time emphasizing the “ah” in the middle.

Still, her joke was met with unbearable silence.

Partly because we were in a sophisticated salon, excuse me, hair studio located in Coral Gables and the insinuation that the stylist would be capable of doing a horrible job was met with a raised eyebrow and a slight puckering of lips. But mostly because, unbeknownst to her, the audience members of her comedy special were Hialeahan – myself included.

And at that moment, one of great impulse and little reasoning, I decided to go full blonde. Because I’m from Hialeah and I wanted to somehow prove a point that really didn’t require further evidence in the most passive aggressive way possible.

You see, Hialeah is twice my birthplace. The first birth came in the late seventies, when I fumbled out of my mother’s womb in the hospital that bears the city’s name. The second was a figurative birth, my entrée into adult life, which took place in the early 2000’s. Without a silver spoon or a safety net, the city welcomed me regardless of who I was or was no longer. Hialeah didn’t care that I was suddenly poor, she put her arm around me and said, “Honey, we are all broke.” Only she said it in Spanish.

I stuck around for five years and loved every moment. There is simply no place like it and here are the reasons why:

1. 49th Street is the parade route for every celebration and the road for every morning’s commute. Regardless of the occasion or the time of day, your speed is limited to 5 miles per hour. They had to build two Starbucks less than 1.5 miles from each other because by the time you get from one to the other, you’ll want a second cup.

2. Some crazy company swooped into Hialeah and decided they were going to change the mall’s name from Westland to Westfield. Two months after the name change, they changed it back when they realized no one could pronounce the new name.


3. Hialeah is the last place in South Florida where you actually talk to your neighbors – and not just when there’s a Hurricane. Even when you don’t want to talk to them, they are talking to you. They want to know who you’re voting for. They ask for help reading and/or writing a letter. They show up with leftovers from the bakery. And, best of all, you can ask them for toilet paper in emergency situations.

4. Everyone knows where they can get anything at a cheaper price. Pick up a tomato at Publix Sabor and an old man from across the plantains will tell you that they are 10 cents a pound at Presidente Supermarket. Try on some shoes at Kohl’s and a woman will tell you that she just saw the same ones at Ross for $10 less. As you walk into Bed, Bath and Beyond someone will see you and give you their 10 percent coupon, claiming that they went inside and didn’t like anything.


5. Around every corner and at every turn there are some incredible stories – many of them tragic, many of them heartbreaking. From the abusive boyfriend to the victim of fraud to the lonely widow to the caretaker of an orphaned child – all of those stories live and thrive within these walls. But like the old adage goes, with great sadness comes great joy, which is why Hialeahans are so raucous and boisterous, why they defy fashion norms and trends and why they don’t conform or assimilate. They march to the beat of their own pots and pans.

And the reason why I’m not only blonde, I’m a Hialeah blonde.


Hair color blind

I’ve started a new project.

Only because I need a break from my other project that I can’t seem to finish, which technically was started  when I couldn’t finish the first project that started this whole screen writing business.

Apologies if that last sentence confused you.

All you need to know is that as of now, I’m writing a romantic comedy.

Romantic comedy films are not my preferred genre. They are not my preferred anything. But, that’s probably because there hasn’t been a movie that truly spoke to me in the way that “Pretty Woman” spoke to up-and-coming prostitutes looking for love.

So, I’ve set out to write a script about a love story between two women (SPOILER ALERT) with a happy ending.

In my initial research, I read a couple of scripts and watched a bunch of lesbian movies – a terribly tough job that I wouldn’t wish on even the most devout Westboro Baptish Church member (although I get the feeling they’ve probably seen more lesbian movies than me). Well, as I slaved away, making notes of what I liked and didn’t like, I noticed something. No, not that one of the lesbians always dies a tragic death, although that was very much the case. I noticed that the couple consisted of, for the most part, a blonde and a brunette.

The L Word.
The L Word.
High Art.
But, I’m a Cheerleader.

But wait, it gets even weirder.

The blonde generally played the part of the “straight girl” seduced by the brunette, alpha female.

Orange is the New Black.
Orange is the New Black.
Show Me Love.
Show Me Love.
South of Nowhere.
South of Nowhere.
The Four-Faced Liar.
The Four-Faced Liar.

What does this all mean? Are blondes just waiting to be swept off their feet by an aggressive brunette lesbian? Or worse. Are all blondes straight until they meet the right brunette lesbian? And, more importantly, I’m a brunette with ombre blonde streaks. What kind of a mixed message am I sending out?

I’m sure there are countless of scholarly papers out there explaining the psychology behind hair color, or why Wonder Woman was a brunette, or why both gentlemen and lesbians prefer blondes, but I’m not going to read them. This little exercise provided enough evidence for me to make a decision that will revolutionize the romantic comedy genre and most likely win an Oscar in the hair and make-up category.

I’ve decided to make both characters wear chef hats. This way there will finally be a movie that explores the human condition to love and be loved regardless of a woman’s hair color.

I Love Lucy.
The truth is that I prefer red heads.

I hear you

The following conversation took place in a Starbucks restroom:

WOMAN#1: I want to be an actress.

WOMAN #2: Me too.

WOMAN #1: No, I’m serious. I want to be an actress.

WOMAN #2: Me too! I’m serious too.

WOMAN #1: I take drama and film production classes. What do you do?

WOMAN #2: I’m naturally blonde.

I was in the stall and never got a good look at them. But, I can only imagine they looked like this:

Photo courtesy of FanPop.com