Unbeweaveable (7 page)

French Toast

Life has a way of throwing a monkey wrench in your plans. I swore three things that would never happen to me: I would never take out my weave, never lose my job, and never, never move back home. Yet here I was, on a plane back to Houston.

I can't remember the last time I didn't have a plan. But I feel my stomach churning, and for once, I don't think it's my ulcer. What am I doing here? But more importantly, how long was I going to be here? Beverly booked a one-way ticket to Houston, which gave me the impression it would be a long time before New York was my home again.

So many changes. And everything happening so fast.

I put my pen down and reached up to twirl a lock of weave around my finger, and was brought back to a cold reality.

Oh, that. No weave. That was the hardest thing of all. What was I going to do without her? Who was I without her? One thing's for sure. Never say never.

I got off the plane in a dreamlike state, praying that at any moment that I would wake up and find myself back in my small, but lovely, apartment in New York. I walked past everyone and waited patiently for my luggage, a nondescript black bag that wasn't anything like the Louis Vuitton luggage that I sold a week prior. I was surprised to see my half-sister waving and carrying on at the entrance.

I groaned. I hoped to postpone our reunion, but now here she was—her hand waving, her long, wavy brown hair dancing around her head, her light skin sparkling in the sunlight.

“Welcome home!” She hugged me, engulfing me in Chanel No. 5. “I'm so glad to see you! It's been over a year, oh my goodness, you look great!”

Great? I looked a lot of things, but
great w
asn't one of them. She gathered my luggage and stowed it in her black Escalade while I hoisted myself in the passenger seat, but not without admiring the dark leather interior, high-gloss wood grain details, and chrome accents.

“It's good to see you, too, Renee,” I said as I buckled my seat belt. She heaved herself in the driver's seat and looked at me.

“I mean it, Mariah, I really am glad to see you.” She smiled at me and put her hair behind her ear, revealing four-carat diamond stud earrings that sparkled and glinted so much, I literally needed sunglasses.

“Are you hungry? We could stop and get some breakfast before heading to the house?”

“No thanks, I ate a little on the plane.”

“That's not real food. Let's go by Sal's and treat ourselves to a real breakfast.”

Sal's was the diner in a part of town we rarely frequented, yet it somehow became the after-school hang-out. Their prices were small, portions were big, and ambiance was low but the food was good and the closest thing to homemade. We drove there with her talking about all the things she had been up to, me politely nodding at the appropriate pauses. She noticed that I was quiet for most of the ride and would only answer questions when asked. I wasn't in the mood for conversation and tried to emit enough negative energy so she would get the point and stop talking. It worked. The rest of the trip she was silent.

We pulled up in front of Sal's, and I wasn't surprised that it hadn't changed much in the twelve years I'd been gone. The white paint on the wood frame building was peeling and chipped and the steps up to the front door groaned with our weight. A black sign with stick-on black letters told us to seat ourselves and we sat in our usual booth near the rear of the restaurant. We grabbed our menus from the table; mine was splattered with ketchup or hot sauce, and I grabbed a napkin from the stainless steel dispenser and cleaned the plastic menu.

“I'm having French toast. What are you having?”

“Probably just an egg white omelet.”

“That's it?”

“Not all of us are blessed with the skinny gene, Renee. Some of us have to work to stay thin.”

“You look great; you don't need to lose any weight. In fact, you look a little thin.”

“Good. Bony is the look I'm going for.”

Our waitress approached with two glasses of water, and we placed our order.

“So, Mama said you lost your job. I'm sorry about that.”

I shrugged. “Technically I didn't lose my job. The magazine folded. So me being unemployed has nothing to do with my job performance.”

“Okay, that's good, I guess? Well, you don't have to rush to find anything. I mean, you can take your time to find a job. Maybe you could find something you really enjoy.”

“I enjoyed my old job, Renee.”

“Oh yes, of course. I know that, I was just saying that you didn't need to rush. I'll support you in any way I can.”

“I'm getting unemployment—”

“But that doesn't pay much, I'm sure. Don't worry, while you're here, let little sis take care of you,” she said, patting my hand.

“Thanks,” I said. I slipped my hand away and started twirling my straw around in my water. Getting support from Renee was the last thing I wanted right now, but I was so low, I had to take what I could get.

“So I haven't heard from you since Peter's funeral last year. What else has been going on in your life?”

“Why are you so interested in what's going on in my life?”

“I just wanted to know—I mean…I haven't seen you in forever. Every time I call you or ask to visit you, you're always so busy. What has you so busy that you can't see your baby sister?”

“Work mostly. Just going out and doing things—”

“You and Norma are still friends, right?”

“Yes.”

She nodded. “She wrote to me a couple of times after Peter died. I'll never forget that.”

“She wrote to you?”

“Yes. What's wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” I said. Our waitress reappeared with plates of food, and I stared at the huge omelet before me that was stuffed with bacon and sausage and covered in cheddar cheese.

“Excuse me. This doesn't look like an egg white omelet.”

“It ain't one. That's just a plain ‘ole omelet. If you wanted to eat healthy you came to the wrong place.” She walked off while I stared at the massive omelet on my plate.

“I can't eat all this.”

Renee was dousing her French toast with maple syrup. “Why not?”

“This isn't what I ordered.”

“Just relax, Mariah. Eat what you can and then just bag the rest for later.”

I sighed and dug into my omelet, grease turning my lips shiny as wet gloss.

“Good, huh?”

I nodded as I took another huge bite, forgetting about calories and what it would do to my hips and my ulcer. I just kept eating until, several minutes later, it was gone.

I sat back in the booth, feeling stuffed and satisfied.

“I forgot how good the food is here.”

“You forgot about a lot of things. Let's hope you start remembering.”

Greasy

I remember being eight years old and Beverly combing our hair in the morning, getting us ready for school. It took all of five minutes to do Renee's hair, just a quick brush and her waves fell into a long ponytail that swished behind her like a horse's mane. She gave my hair the same attention, even though my hair needed much more time. With Beverly's hair being so straight, she wasn't accustomed to dealing with hair like mine; she and Renee shared the same texture. So dealing with my short ethnic hair was a challenge that Beverly was not up to taking.

I would watch in horror as short, curly hairs landed without a sound on my white t-shirt as she brushed my inch-long hair in a ponytail. Keeping my hair in a ponytail required the skill of a magician—in minutes my hair would sprout free from the rubber band, my edges sticking out like porcupine quills, the rubber band only holding the hair in the center of my head.

You can imagine the friends I made with my hair looking like Cealy from
The
Color
Purple
. I was the only black girl in the entire private school of Westmont Elementary. Well, take that back, there were two other black girls there, but their hair would shine, and be almost as straight as their white counterparts. Curious, I asked one of the girls what they used on their hair.

“Your hair is nappy. You need a perm.”

“And some grease,” the other one chimed in. “That's why your hair is sticking up all over the place.”

“Yeah, nappy head, some hair grease. Ain't yo' mama told you about hair grease?”

I nodded and walked away while they chimed “nappy head” and “tar baby” behind me.

The next day I told my mother about what the girls said and she shook her head.

“Grease is so ghetto, and the bane of black folks. My mama thought I needed grease, too, and she used to slather the stuff all over my head. It made my pillowcases so dirty and grimy. I refuse to use that stuff. Look at Renee's hair,” she said. “See how long and pretty her hair is? She doesn't use grease at all and her hair is long.”

“But Mama, Renee's hair is different than mine. She don't need hair grease.”

“Don't?”

I sighed. “Doesn't.”

“And neither do you,” she said.

I wouldn't let the matter drop. The teasing at school worsened. It was bad enough to be dark, but did I have to have nappy hair, too? Beverly gave in after weeks of me crying and took me to a hair salon.

She huffed and puffed on the drive over, upset because upon seeing me her stylist said he didn't do ethnic hair.

“I can't believe I have to drive all the way to the ghetto to get your hair done. You better appreciate what I'm doing for you. You hear?”

“Yes, ma'am. And I do. Thank you.”

“I made your appointment already. Just tell the woman what you need,” she said, leaving me at the front entrance. “I'll be back to pick you up later.” She peeled off, leaving me coughing at the dust that kicked up in her wake.

I walked in the salon, with its peeling black and white linoleum tile floor, black leather couches, and the smell of burnt hair and hair spray tickling my nostrils. I sat down on one of the couches hoping someone would notice me, but after thirty minutes of being ignored, I walked up to the receptionist and told her that I had an appointment.

“With who?” she asked, making a loud pop with her gum.

“Don't know.”

She sighed, letting me know her full irritation with me.

“Name?” she asked.

“
My
name?”

“Well, whose name do you think I want?”

“Mariah Stevens.”

“You're late. You're for LaQuisha. ‘Quisha, your one o'clock is here!” She told me to sit down, that she'd come and get me when she was ready for me.

I waited several minutes and then a tall, thin woman approached. Or rather her scent approached. Her flowery perfume was overpowering and I blinked back tears as she told me to come on. I followed her, mesmerized by her long hair that was curled in perfect spirals, each of them shiny as patent leather. Different colors were intertwined throughout, some blue, green, pink—her hair was like a rainbow. It was beautiful.

She placed three telephone books on her purple styling chair, picked me up fast and plopped me down in the chair. She threw a black plastic cape around my neck and started touching my hair. She whistled.

“Your hair is dry.” Several strands of my hair stayed in her fingers and she shook her head.

“How you getting your hair done today?”

“A perm.”

“A perm? You sure? Your hair is a little dry for chemicals.”

“That's what I want,” I said, my voice firm. After getting bossed around so much today I needed to be strong about what I wanted.

“Where's your mama? I need to talk to her—”

“She not here. But she told me that I needed a perm. So that's what I want.”

“You sure she didn't say a relaxer? She said a perm?”

I thought back to what the girls at school had said. “Yep, a perm is what she said.”

“Okay. Let's get started.”

She went to a back room and came back with a jar of cream. She put Vaseline around my hairline and then applied the slippery goop all over my head. It smelled like the water that sat under my house after a hard rain. I held my nose as she worked, and then she led me to a dryer where I sat on top of telephone books again, as she lowered the hood on my head.

“Sit here for ten minutes—I'll be back.”

Just when I thought the smell would smother me to death, she appeared, and led me to the shampoo bowls. I sat with my knees in the chair, my head bent down over the sink like Beverly had me do every evening.

“TaWanna, take a look at this girl!” LaQuisha said, bent over from laughter. A woman came over and laughed long and loud. “That's a shame. This is probably her first time at a beauty salon.”

“What did I do wrong?” I asked.

She didn't answer, just kept laughing. She pulled me up from the chair and I stood waiting for her to return with the dreaded telephone books. She sat them in the purple vinyl shampoo chair and patted them. I climbed up and she pushed the back of the chair down until I was at the level of the shampoo bowl. I realized my mistake and felt my ears burning. She rinsed the goop out and shampooed my hair, her plastic bangles clanking together. She finished and towel-dried my hair and we made the trip back to her chair, telephone books and all.

She grabbed a clear plastic bin off her station. It was filled with rollers of all different shapes and sizes. These rollers were different than the ones that Beverly used; these had what looked like rubber bands attached to the ends.

“What are those for?”

“I need to rod your hair to finish the process.”

I was too short to see myself in her big mirror hanging above her station but I could feel my hair, and for the first time it felt soft as warm butter and just as slippery. It was straight. I felt like singing.

“Will my hair look like yours?”

She laughed.

“This is a weave. Synthetic hair.”

“A weave?”

“It's not my real hair. I stitch this hair into my hair to make it look longer.”

“Can I get that?”

She laughed again, and patted my shoulder. “You're too young for this. Maybe when you grow up.”

A hair weave
, I whispered, imprinting the words upon my brain.
That's what I want
. She put the plastic bin in my lap and told me to hand her rollers as she needed them. We fell into an easy rhythm. She pulled a long cotton strand from a box on her station, and wrapped it around my hairline, and then told me to close my eyes as she squirted liquid all over the rollers. The smell was intense and reminded me of the few times Beverly let me go to the nail salon with her.

“What is this stuff?” I wailed.

“Just keep your eyes closed. It'll be over in a minute.”

I obeyed until she was finished. “Now sit with this and then I'll rinse it out.”

Thirty minutes later she was finished with the whole perming process and she pumped up her hydraulic chair so I could see myself in the mirror.

I was a boy. I was Little Richard incarnate.

My hair was curly, short and so greasy I was afraid to stand next to a stove for fear it would catch on fire.

“It's ugly!” I cried, while LaQuisha patted me on the shoulder.

“Your hair is short. When it grows you'll love it.”

I dried my tears and nodded, praying that what she said was true. I waited another hour for my mother to appear and when she did she stifled a scream.

“What did they do to your hair? It looks like it's been covered in lard!”

“It's a perm. The lady said when it grows it'll be pretty.”

She reached out to touch it, and then backed her hand away. “This won't
ever
be pretty. Which one of these ladies did your hair?”

I pointed and watched as Beverly walked over to LaQuisha's station. I couldn't hear everything that was said, but could tell by her wild arm movements that Beverly was upset.

“How am I supposed to take care of this mess?” she screamed, pointing to me. “I can't go walking around with this grease monkey, she looks horrible!”

The salon was quiet as she snatched my hand and dragged me out.

“I told you not to get a hairstyle where you needed grease. Don't lean back in the seat,” she snapped, as she put the car in reverse. I sat rigid in my seat, keeping my head still.

“They told me I need to buy some stuff to keep it shiny.”

She glared down at me.

“It's shiny enough. Looks like I could fry a whole chicken from the grease on your head.”

“Sorry.”

“You're not going to school tomorrow. I need to take you somewhere else where they can fix that disaster on your head.”

“I need to go get the stuff for my hair—”

“You're not going anywhere, Mariah.”

“Fine. Beverly.”

“What did you call me?”

“I called you Beverly. What's wrong—that's your name, isn't it?”

The slap came across my face so fast, I was left wondering if I'd imagined it. My eyes filled with tears as I held my cheek.

“You call me Mama.”

“No.”

The light turned red and we stared at each other until a horn blew and she was forced to turn her attention back to the road.

And I sat there, still as stone as she drove home, her mumbling about my hair all the way.