What Looks Like Crazy on an Ordinary Day by Pearl Cleage Page B

and shook Joyce’s hand.
    “Maybe we can talk again after I’ve had a chance to think about some of the excellent points you brought out this morning.”
    I thought Joyce was laying it on pretty thick, but Gerry was eating it up.
    “Of course we can, dear,” she said, holding out her dry, smooth hand to me. “And it was so good to have you in our little congregation on Sunday, too.”
    “You have a wonderful voice,” I said, following Joyce’s lead with some flattery of my own. I wasn’t lying either. The woman could blow.
    “He blessed me with an instrument to glorify his name!” she said as we headed for the door, then Joyce turned around with the phoniest innocent look on her face you could ever imagine.
    “Sister Anderson? When shall I bring you the bulletin announcement for next Wednesday? It’s only our regular nursery school scheduling session. Not very exciting, but if it helps free up these young mothers so they can concentrate more fully on the word of God, it’s worth it, isn’t it?”
    Gerry peered closely at Joyce, but Joyce was totally cool.
    “Of course, dear,” Gerry said. “Just be sure it gets here by Thursday noon. I’m not as good at this typing business as I used to be.”
    When we got outside, I started fussing immediately, but Joyce stopped me.
    “Wait until we pull out,” she said. “I’m sure she’s still watching us.”
    “You’re not going along with all that, are you?” I said as we climbed into the car.
    “Of course not, but now that she thinks I am, I’ve got some room to move around for a minute or two. She never comes to our meetings. I’ll tell her we’re going to be discussing the nursery from now until Christmas if that’s what makes her happy. The woman’s out of touch. She’s worrying about them storing up points in heaven when what they need is some survival lessons.”
    As Joyce pulled the car out of the empty parking lot, I looked in the side mirror and saw Gerry standing in the window, watching.
     
     
• 20
     
    i had finally convinced Joyce to let me pamper her a little bit with a hard wash, deep conditioner, and rebraiding. When I rubbed some warm oil on her scalp and snuck in a little neck massage, she sighed and closed her eyes like I had finally hit the exact spot that needed it.
    “You were right,” she said. “This feels great.”
    “I’m always right.”
    “I wouldn’t go that far,” she smiled. I rubbed a little oil in the kitchen where the hair is always so soft it feels like a baby’s first growth. In beauty school, they told us to call the “kitchen” the “nape,” but any black beautician worth the name knows you can’t use a term that has the word “nap” in it. Joyce sighed again. “That feels wonderful.”
    “I’m good at this.” I wasn’t bragging. I always made good money, but I never really enjoyed it until I got into the psychology of the whole process. I knew sisters spent a lot of time and money and energy on our hair, but I figured it was all about looking good for whatever brother was on the home front or on the horizon. Then I started watching my clients and listening to them more closely. They all talk a mile a minute. I’m not required to talk much. My function is more to ask the right questions, praise whatever course of action they have already followed, show indignation or approval at appropriate intervals, and make sure I don’t cut it too short on the sides or leave them under the dryer any longer than absolutely necessary.
    I was good at it—the cutting and the listening—and some of my clients came twice a week at thirty to fifty dollars a pop. Now, I like to look good, too, but I think it was only half about looking good and the other half about having somebody to actively listen, actively affirm, and actively
touch
without expecting sex or a home-cooked meal in exchange.
    Most sisters lean into a good shampoo like it’s as welcome as good sex. One of my operators used to say that’s why