Hair
. I could have told her to put the magazine away because in the end Bert would decide what was best and change the woman’s mind in less time than it took to pop the cap on a bottle of Dark and Lovely.
Bert looked up when I walked in. “Well, I see that lyin’ ass got what was comin’. Bodies fallin’ like flies, but they can’t blame it on Kendrick this time. Need to be careful what we do ’cause shit got a way of rollin’ back.”
I let that go for the moment and made my way to the coffee-maker. I returned with a steaming cup and took a seat next to the woman with the magazine. The younger girl on the other side appeared to be dozing despite the noise from the dryer.
Bert said no more and I sipped the coffee and looked around the small shop. The TV was not on and the hum of the hair dryer was almost pleasant.
As often as I came here, I was still fascinated by the pictures of the assorted hairstyles Bert had pasted on the walls. Faces young and pretty enough to pass muster even if they were bald, but there they were, smiling from the circular cutouts, with hair blond, strawberry, auburn, and black; streaked, straightened, slicked,puffed, curled, crunched, waved, permed, relaxed, leisured, woven, wigged, glued, bleached, and braided. Smiling a promise of a better image that naturally translated into a vision of a better job, better man, and endless nights of knockout sex—though I wondered how much sex could be on the menu without disturbing the elaborate waves and curls framing some of the faces.
But hope, being what it is, brought them through the door to settle themselves in the chair and point to a picture and declare, “That’s me.”
Sometimes Bert suggested an alternative. Sometimes she didn’t and nodded and smiled and went on with the alternative anyway. So skillfully, in fact, that in the end, the satisfied sister doubled the tip.
For a while—a short while—Bert had had Thea’s picture pasted among the cutouts. But after Thea and Kendrick split up, Bert had removed it without a word.
I watched her hands now, moving over her customer’s head, shaping each wave.
“What goes around, comes around,” she said.
The woman sitting next to me closed the
Black Hair
magazine and said, “They shoulda named that place the Bad-Luck Bar for all the strange shit that went down in there … I’m talkin’ grimy stuff!”
“Like what?” I asked.
She shrugged and looked at me as though I were a visitor from out of town. “That used to be my chill spot once upon a time, but like I said, some funny stuff was happenin’ …”
“Like what?” I asked again.
She raised her cup to her mouth, trying to makeup her mind whether I was friend or foe. Bert said nothing and continued to style the girl’s hair. The hum of the dryer competed with the drone of the air conditioner over the door. Outside, a jeep with stadium-size speakers pulled up to the traffic light. A sonic boom passed through the shop and the coffee cup vibrated in my hand. The light changed, the jeep’s presence faded, and the electronic drones dominated again.
Finally, the woman yawned, and the chance to be the first with the news got the better of her. She leaned forward and her voice, like an invisible hand, drew us into an imperceptible circle.
“Everybody knows that place, but not everybody knows how Henderson Laws is. Was. I had a cousin we used to call Wild Thing. Young boy, pretty, and lived down to his name. Ended up HIV and went out on the A-train three months ago.
“Last summer, he spotted me in the Moon and pulled my coat. Said, ‘Girlfriend, ain’t no need chillin’ here. If you ain’t got no lollipop need workin’, you wastin’ your good time …’
“And you know, for the longest rime I hadn’t been able to figure why I couldn’t get not one a those brothers to say hello, let alone buy me a glass of water. But once Wild Thing hipped me to the program, I peeped what was goin’ down. I mean it wasn’t
. I could have told her to put the magazine away because in the end Bert would decide what was best and change the woman’s mind in less time than it took to pop the cap on a bottle of Dark and Lovely.
Bert looked up when I walked in. “Well, I see that lyin’ ass got what was comin’. Bodies fallin’ like flies, but they can’t blame it on Kendrick this time. Need to be careful what we do ’cause shit got a way of rollin’ back.”
I let that go for the moment and made my way to the coffee-maker. I returned with a steaming cup and took a seat next to the woman with the magazine. The younger girl on the other side appeared to be dozing despite the noise from the dryer.
Bert said no more and I sipped the coffee and looked around the small shop. The TV was not on and the hum of the hair dryer was almost pleasant.
As often as I came here, I was still fascinated by the pictures of the assorted hairstyles Bert had pasted on the walls. Faces young and pretty enough to pass muster even if they were bald, but there they were, smiling from the circular cutouts, with hair blond, strawberry, auburn, and black; streaked, straightened, slicked,puffed, curled, crunched, waved, permed, relaxed, leisured, woven, wigged, glued, bleached, and braided. Smiling a promise of a better image that naturally translated into a vision of a better job, better man, and endless nights of knockout sex—though I wondered how much sex could be on the menu without disturbing the elaborate waves and curls framing some of the faces.
But hope, being what it is, brought them through the door to settle themselves in the chair and point to a picture and declare, “That’s me.”
Sometimes Bert suggested an alternative. Sometimes she didn’t and nodded and smiled and went on with the alternative anyway. So skillfully, in fact, that in the end, the satisfied sister doubled the tip.
For a while—a short while—Bert had had Thea’s picture pasted among the cutouts. But after Thea and Kendrick split up, Bert had removed it without a word.
I watched her hands now, moving over her customer’s head, shaping each wave.
“What goes around, comes around,” she said.
The woman sitting next to me closed the
Black Hair
magazine and said, “They shoulda named that place the Bad-Luck Bar for all the strange shit that went down in there … I’m talkin’ grimy stuff!”
“Like what?” I asked.
She shrugged and looked at me as though I were a visitor from out of town. “That used to be my chill spot once upon a time, but like I said, some funny stuff was happenin’ …”
“Like what?” I asked again.
She raised her cup to her mouth, trying to makeup her mind whether I was friend or foe. Bert said nothing and continued to style the girl’s hair. The hum of the dryer competed with the drone of the air conditioner over the door. Outside, a jeep with stadium-size speakers pulled up to the traffic light. A sonic boom passed through the shop and the coffee cup vibrated in my hand. The light changed, the jeep’s presence faded, and the electronic drones dominated again.
Finally, the woman yawned, and the chance to be the first with the news got the better of her. She leaned forward and her voice, like an invisible hand, drew us into an imperceptible circle.
“Everybody knows that place, but not everybody knows how Henderson Laws is. Was. I had a cousin we used to call Wild Thing. Young boy, pretty, and lived down to his name. Ended up HIV and went out on the A-train three months ago.
“Last summer, he spotted me in the Moon and pulled my coat. Said, ‘Girlfriend, ain’t no need chillin’ here. If you ain’t got no lollipop need workin’, you wastin’ your good time …’
“And you know, for the longest rime I hadn’t been able to figure why I couldn’t get not one a those brothers to say hello, let alone buy me a glass of water. But once Wild Thing hipped me to the program, I peeped what was goin’ down. I mean it wasn’t
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