Lissa Carandang-Sweeney

Lola

When I was five years old, I learned to sew from my Lola - my grandma. We used old hand towels to make dolls back then, because we didn’t have much money to spend on new fabric between the two of us. I would take unused napkins from restaurants to make our dolls’ robes and fastened hair ties along their waists to save them from unexpected indecency. I remember wanting to give the first doll we made together some hair; I didn’t want her head to get cold in the winter. But as a five year old, I couldn’t fathom how to inexpensively provide a hair transplant to my new, bald companion. My Lola told me to bring her scissors and to choose my favorite color from her well-aged collection of embroidery threads. I chose turquoise, and she thought it was an ugly color for a doll’s hair, but went on to oblige my outlandish wishes as any loving grandmother would. I still remember how awestruck I was when she effortlessly sewed long, loose seams perpendicularly down the center of my doll’s head. My Lola neatly trimmed my doll’s fresh locks of turquoise embroidery floss as if it was nothing. My doll now had a short bowl cut resembling mine - the affectionate hairstyle staple of all Asian grandmothers worldwide. As a final touch to our creation, I scribbled on a humble, lopsided smiley face with a neon blue highlighter that happened to be in arms reach. When my Mom returned home from work later that evening, I ran to greet her with my new friend.