Of Curls and Cultures

"It's all in the wrist, some kind of wrist action they have combined with the roller set. No matter how well you do roller sets at home, they do it better. The blow-out that you get is smoother and shinier than you can get at any other salons."

Unlike those pricey retreats where you're served cappuccino and white wine, Sashelvis is strictly no-frills: a handful of seats in the front, a few pictures of glammed-out hair models on the walls, a few religious portraits along with the American flag stuck in a glass vase, impersonating a flower.

Folks come here because it's quick. (Well, relatively, about two hours, start to finish.) It's cheap. (Again, relatively. Cheap for D.C., with prices starting at $35; it's cheaper in New York, the epicenter of the Dominican American beauty parlor.) It's convenient. (Open seven days a week, no appointment necessary.)

It works something like this: You come in, asking for a "wash 'n' set." The receptionist gives your hair the once-over. If your hair is long, you pay $10 more. If your hair is naturally curly or kinky and untouched by chemical straighteners or relaxers, you pay $10 more.

After the initial assessment, you're sent back to the shampoo room, where you get scrubbed down with products hailing from the D.R. and Europe and then slathered with ultrahydrating conditioners. Then it's under a long, conical dryer for 10 minutes while the conditioner does its work. After a quick rinse, you're plopped down in the stylist's chair, where she painstakingly sets your soaking locks on big plastic rollers. Then it's back under the hairdryer for an ear-scorching 50 minutes. Then back to the stylist's chair, where she takes out the curlers and, armed with a blow-dryer and a brush, steamrolls out any remaining bumps and kinks from the hair. Then, you're finished off with a curling iron, ensuring that any remaining hint of frizz is obliterated.

(Frizz is the enemy here. On the way out the door, a receptionist proffers a shower cap to don as you cross the street. It's raining, she points out. Rain equals frizz.)

By the time the first batch of clients are going through the final stages of their transformation, a haze hovers over the salon, the byproduct of multiple blow-dryers going at full blast at the same time. Over the speakers, Dominican balladeer Bonny Cepeda croons about lost love, begging and begging for what once was and what now isn't. Some of the stylists sing along sotto voce, egged on by Marmolejos's 13-year-old daughter, Sasha.

"¡Dale, dale! " she teases, tossing her mane of perfectly straightened hair. "¡Canta!"

Go on! Sing!

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Back home in Santo Domingo, there's a beauty shop on every corner. Office workers are expected to adhere to a strict dress code, Marmolejos says -- carefully coiffed hair, no ponytails, or buns -- and so women haunt salons, popping in every few days for a touch-up, trying to beat the heat and humidity.

"Every Dominican girl knows how to roller-set their hair," says Angelina "Gigi" Alcantara, the salon's 24-year-old receptionist/bookkeeper. "It has to be real straight."