My Hair Tells of Me
This story is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, incidents and dialogues are a figment of my imagination – most definitely inspired by God and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organisations, persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Inspiration: My house hair and hair videos on YouTube by: IG: @sosheargenius (YT: Deeper Than Hair TV) and IG: @love518salon (YT: Love 518)
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I’m standing across the street fascinated by the busyness of the hair salon - even with social distancing, and it’s only 11:30am. I spot the smiling faces of black women who’ve been eager for this day - 4 July 2020. I take a deep breath.
The green pixelated man is flashing, inviting me to the other side of the road, the side on which this hair palace stands. I’m ignoring the green man, this will be the fourth time, and I watch him turn red as if he’s angry that I didn’t move. Then, with my “public use pen,” I’m pressing the button of the signal, waiting for him to appear once more. Whilst waiting, I motivate myself, “You must cross the road! You must!” - I’ve whispered. Again, my green man has shown up. This time, it’s as if he is holding my hand and ushering me over to his side.
I make it. That wasn’t so bad.
My appointment isn’t for another 30 minutes, being late isn’t an option. My father always said, “Latecomers are not to be taken seriously.” I want to be taken seriously today.
With such timidity, I’m pushing the doors of “Heritage Style - Natural Hair & Beauty Salon”, and with the bit of strength I have left, I’ve entered. What a heavy door! Or could it be my heavy heart?
I’m greeted by a young receptionist, so full of life, eager and ready to seize the remaining hours of her working day. And, beneath her mask, I can tell she has a beautiful smile; I see it in her eyes. She asks for my name, I tell her, and she confirms my appointment, “you’ll be meeting with our lead stylist, Miss Heritage herself.”
I’m nervous.
I’m nervous because this is the first time I’ve left my flat, further than my local supermarket, since the pandemic started. It’s also the first time that I’m…
“Nita?” A vibrant, full-of-life voice calls my name with such power! I can’t remember the last time someone called my name, as if my existence was intentional. I shift slightly and offer a feeble smile. I haven’t attempted a smile in a long time.
“DARLING! Welcome! Have you been offered anything to drink? Would you like something to eat?”
Wait. Eat! Drink! I came for a hair appointment, not to be wined and dined! Do I look thirsty? Do I look hungry? But then again, the last meal I had was a few days ago. So my stomach starts growling in appreciation. Heritage laughs joyfully and tries to cup my small face in her full hands. It’s still not safe to hug or shake a hand, let alone touch my face (masked or not), so I dodge and watch her soft, pillow-like hands fall in understanding. Oh, I await the return of my sleep like a long lost relative; sleep and relatives, I don’t have much of either.
Not allowing the moment to linger, Heritage has whisked me away to a private room. The sign on the door reads “VIP ONLY”. Me? VIP? I’ve let out a laugh, and my sound frightens me.
“Heritage” is a mighty name for a mighty woman. With her weight and tree-like height, I can tell the root of her kindness runs deep. And like a tree that moves at will to the wind, she has picked up effortlessly, disappearing and reappearing with a tray of food. There’s rice and peas, oxtails, plantains, a small helping of mac & cheese, and coleslaw on my plate. My favourite, but sadly, my stomach has no room for all this food. I try to eat what I can, and I’ve allowed my eyes to consume the rest while my heart commands my appetite back. Heritage has returned and catches me inspecting the remnants of my meal.
“Don’t worry, DARLING! I’ll pack it fi yuh to take to ya yard.” Heritage smiles as she reaches for the tray, taking it back to wherever she brought it from. I wonder what she’s doing. To be honest, this is the perfect time to leave!
It’s like she’s reading my mind when she shows up again, but this time with a bag that says: “Heritage Style - Natural Hair & Beauty Salon” elegantly embossed in gold foil lettering. Heritage places the black shopping bag on the floor near my seat; I’ve peeked in the bag just as she has turned her back to get my cape. Inside are four takeaway containers stuffed with food, two cans of KA Caribbean Kola and water. This woman?
Now I have food for the week, and I don’t need to worry about queuing up at the supermarket.
Food, drink and pleasantries are done and now it’s time for the real reason I’m here.
Draped in the glory of the shiniest salon garb, I wait for Heritage to remove my woolly hat. Instead, Heritage is asking that I take it off myself.
I know what you’re thinking, “a woolly hat in the summer?”
I don’t have an answer for you, but I know that I didn’t sign up for this today.
Heritage and I are staring at each other like that meme of Diddy and that blonde-haired man - I don’t know his name - but we’re staring, and Heritage repeats, “Nita, please take your hat off.”
The Diddy stare-down.
I need to leave. I should have never come.
I can’t leave. I need to be here. A short moment passes, permitting my eyes to moisten, and I utter a broken whisper.
“I can’t,” I confess.
I can. I should. I must, the same way I crossed the road earlier. Surely, jumping too many hurdles in a day exhausts an athlete? I’m a gold medalist in fear.
“Nita. I need to assess your hair accurately, but I can’t do that if you’re unwilling to see it. By removing your hat yourself, you’re a step closer to freedom. I can style your hair, but today and the rest of your life starts with you taking your hat off.”
I want to interrupt, but she continues.
“I’ve booked out the rest of the day just for you - we’ll only move at your pace, but everything we need to do needs to be accomplished today. So, Nita, please take off your hat.”
I pause. I ponder. I listen.
I raise my hands in a praise-like fashion - I haven’t praised God in a while. Then, with my shaking limbs reaching my woolly crown, my tears flow, droplets are landing on my lap like refreshing rain in this summer heat.
My precious woolly hat crown. The only evidence of any authority I have left. The choice to let my hair grow uncontrollably was my ruling, and it was my law.
Taking off my crown feels like torture, with the wiring of my dry and brittle cords interwoven in its woolly fibres. I have become one with my crown, unable to decipher where it ends and where I begin, exactly like these lockdown days. But here I am today, with Miss Heritage - the restorer of hair and maybe my faith.
My crown hangs, clinging to dead clumps of hair, mixed with matted yet salvageable strands that want a chance to live. That’s all I want to do; I want to live again.
Fruit-tella sweets - chewy fruit flavoured candy
I pray for my life to be un-matted, carefully combed through one day. For gentle, pillow-like hands to work their way to my scalp - my foundation - and discover where this deep sadness has come from. Use scissors if you need to for the lingering shed hairs to be unravelled and detached from me. I need my life to be parted and sectioned, with each area given proper attention. Then, with the use of awakening peppermint shampoos, I need to be cleansed of the built-up debris that has weighed me down. Fruit-tella scented conditioners should sit long and deep on me, filling the atmosphere with sweetness, fun and a bountiful harvest of new life. I desire to be rinsed anew, my hair soft, my life soft with it.
Just like the summer sun, heat comes with life; rather than run away, I want to embrace it as it straightens and stretches me. Like my hair cared for by the right hands, so I hope for my life to be. I won’t suffer damage; instead, my structure, pattern and core will remain intact. I know life won’t always be “happy”, but I’ll take plump two-strand twists, neat knot-less braids and intricate zig-zag cornrows over the brokenness I’ve now exposed from under my toppled crown. I just want to live, and for some reason, my hair seems to be the best place to start.
Heritage is looking ahead at the mirror, staring at me with her wide eyes, filled with the compassion of a hopeful mother. She isn’t saying anything, but her eyes say it all, “you did it, DARLING! You’ve overcome.”
She swivels me in the VIP chair, and I’m now facing her as she crouches, meeting me at eye level. I can see her homely hands reaching for me, and I don’t hesitate this time. I’ve been pulled into a warm embrace that should make the sun jealous. Oh, this familiar touch! I cry in thanksgiving and mutter, “Thank you. Thank you so much, mum.”
My mother, Miss. Heritage.
Saving lives since 1988, one head of hair at a time.
And in 2020, she saved mine.