Los Angeles, April 11, 1988
I can hardly believe she’s gone. She died on April 11, 1983, exactly five years ago. I lit a candle and said a prayer, but I wasn’t able to lay a bouquet on her grave. She’s buried in the Panteón de Dolores, in the Rotonda de las Personas Ilustres, in Mexico City, and I can no longer travel. I’m too old. Arthritis has stiffened my legs and fingers, and I just can’t handle the hustle and bustle of the airport.
To the world, she was Dolores del Río, Hollywood star and first lady of the Golden Age of Mexican Cinema. She was Mexico’s first international female film personality, a celebrity on three continents. She was the embodiment of beauty, glamour, and elegance. To me, she was Lola, my best friend.
It seems like yesterday we were little girls exchanging secrets under the ahuehuete tree in Don Francisco’s garden. And then, unexpectedly, we both found ourselves in Los Angeles, where Lola was launching her career in the movies, and I was twisting ladies’ hair into Marcel curls at Marie’s Beauty Salon. Lola was the daughter of a wealthy banker, and I was the daughter of a maid, but we were like sisters.
After Lola died, a customer at Marie’s suggested I write down her story. “You knew her better than anyone,” she said. “You’re the one who should do it.”
I tried. I was good at English in school, so I didn’t think it would be that hard. But I’m a hairdresser, not a writer. I struggled to find the right words, and gripping a pen for hours on end made my fingers ache.
Now, though, I see that I don’t have much time left. I’m approaching the end. Maybe, before long, Lola and I will be exchanging secrets in heaven—if you believe in that sort of thing. Anyhow, if I’m ever going to finish this memoir, or chronicle, or whatever you want to call it, I have to get to work, even if it hurts my fingers. After all, working through the pain is something I learned from Lola.