Look, I ain't the first one to be completely smitten by harcore cholas. The penciled-in eyebrows, the black cherry lip liner, the small fineline black/grey tattoo on her shoulder, the Alberto VO5 in her hair, the barrio accent...it's just too much, sometimes.
If it wasn't for those cholas of the Seventies, there'd be no Lowrider magazine--really, I mean that shit. These women--the real homegirls--are like unicorns: rare and when you come across one, you wanna keep her never forget that moment when you saw her in her natural habitat. But the problem is, you can't do that. You can't go out with her. You can't talk to her. You can't even let her know you're taking a pic of her with your hipstamatic. Or you'll ruin the whole thing. Just commit her to memory and play back the moment you saw her on the street in slow-motion in your head. Play some Zap as the soundtrack. Whatever. Just don't mess it up.
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