HAIR

Stepping out in a red gown with blue sequins, Isioma was ready for her off-day. She had made arrangements to visit the spa and get some groceries from the market. It was a free day and she had already checked her mail to make sure that nothing was disturbing her work-free, stress-free day.

On this very day, Isioma decided to take the train. It was something she loved to do on days like this. For some reason, it made her feel alive, bright, young, and free. Taking the cab, or even ordering an Uber ride or even Taxify felt like too much automatism, which on days like this, she was trying to avoid.

At the train station, she sat a man who would not stop talking about the headlines in the newspaper he was reading. A man who one can presume to be in his late forties, with his chin containing hair sparsely scattered, containing very scanty strands of hair that can hardly be referred to as a beard.            

“I cannot imagine why the price of gas keeps increasing, and our income every month doesn’t increase. It is terrible at this point if nothing is done to salvage the situation. I earn a lot of money, yet, I have nothing to show for it. It is saddening and beyond disheartening.” He spoke loud enough so that anyone, including Isioma, who was sitting close to him, could hear.

Isioma tried so hard to ignore him, but he would not stop. “Did you even hear about the abortion laws lately and how Roe V. Wade was overturned? The government keeps focusing on changing the wrong things. There is a drastic increase in fuel prices. There are bombings. Children in Africa are being killed every day. Apple is using little kids, kids as little as five to mine cobalt for iPhones in Congo. The government is still not saying a word.”

Pretending not to hear what he was saying, Isioma opened her bag, then her purse, and picked up her earpiece playing Bruno Mars’ Lazy Song. Before, leaving the house, she had already agreed that the day was going to be very free, free from technological devices like her phone or even laptop. But here she was, using her phone because of the man beside her who would not just shut up and enjoy the view.

Seeing that she was neither listening to him nor saying a word, he became extremely angry and agitated. 

“You are one of the big problems we have in this country. How can an elderly man be talking to you, and the next thing you do is pick up your earplugs to listen to music? These millennials would never stop surprising me. You people are very careless things. I am speaking to you and the next thing you do s turn on your phone. It is very sad and annoying.”

In moments like this, Isioma would often feel like she needed to respond. But her therapist, Dr. Nicole, had warned her against arbitrary reaction, that is reacting to things without basis.

“Learn to breathe before you talk. Isi, you are a very lovable person, in fact, one of my most lovable clients, but reacting to things is not so good for you as a person. Learn to pause and breathe before saying a word because most times, you would realize the venom you wanted to spill from your mouth was most likely unnecessary.”

Remembering those exact words, Isioma decided not to argue with him. Spotting a seat, next to her, she moved and then found herself sitting by the window side humming to the lyrics, today I do not feel like doing anything, I just want to lie in my bed. It was not like she was not concerned, or she was not a victim of these things herself, she, of course, was. But on a day like this, all she wanted to do was just have fun, enjoy the few beams of sunlight that could pierce the thick clouds, wear sunscreen and have fun in her little e way. 

Activism was not to be a part of her day. The media often placed in her face reasons to be unhappy. Her workplace was giving the most confusing vibes it has ever given. Her relationship life was nothing to write home about. The last thing she could do for herself, in a world that constantly requires and profits off of her happiness, is to be happy. “My happiness is a form of rebellion against the powers that be,” she would often say to herself 

A few minutes after she changed her seat, she highlighted at a train stop.

Eddie Bernice Johnson Union Station, an intercity train station in Houston Texas. On this very day, a few homeless men were standing just with little plates, begging for arms.

The walls of the station were a little steamy, with men wearing beanies and hoodies and their hands covered in gloves. Isioma thought that this practice was a little off. The practice of men wearing and covering up their bodies during perfectly good weather did not make so much sense to her.

The hair saloon was only a stone's throw from the train station. On some days, or even most days, she would use a cab to get there. But on days like this, the sunbeams slapping on her face were what mattered to her.

Walking towards the corner of the subway, she decided to trek to her hair salon. On her way, she saw a few sights that appealed to her: the ice cream vendor carrying ice creams in tubs, making sounds like the ones the village folklore warned the little kids not to make at night because it conjured spirit, the sight of shops laid like boxes at the side of the rod, the lights, everything appealed to Isioma who was just trying to have a good day.

Isioma finally made it to the hair salon. Miss Tony Hair Salon was spelled boldly on the banner right in front of the building. It was a bungalow painted blue and baby pink. 

“Offers spa treatment, hair treatment, we lock hair. We also help you treat your skin from acne and all pimples and infection. We offer affordable body massages. We do home service as well as offer other quality services.” Isioma read all of the contents of the board out loud. 

Isioma secretly hoped that the enterprise was owned by an African woman or better still, a person of color. “I just hope that whoever owns this place is an original black woman.”

Quickly, the thought of how the last place she visited almost messed up her hair. It was a cloudy day, different from this own. It was a Sunday. Work resuming tomorrow meant that she needed to make her hair otherwise she could get queried.

The owner of the salon was not good at her job. Even though Isioma should have done her due diligence, as regards the hair salon, it was not so much of a choice-making situation. She had no choice but to make use of the next available salon. Her typical hairdresser had just relocated to London, so the current hair salon was more or less some sort of last resort. But little did she know that changing your hairstylist was one of the riskiest things for a woman to ever do. 

When she walked in, the air conditioner that blew humid hair should have been the first red flag. The hairdresser, a woman in her twenties, was very uncouth and unintelligent. She also did not study the hair she was about to make. She used a shampoo mixed with a relaxer despite Isioma’s stern warning against relaxing and perming her hair.

“Madam, please I beg you, do not use a relaxer on my hair. I do not like it, neither do I appreciate it.”

The hairdresser was a little worried about her choice. Dis she, Isioma, does not know about the hair standards and corporate America. To the hairdresser, had she not heard of what her employer would do if she walked in and out of her office with her afro all spoofed everywhere? If she was going for an interview, would she be able to get the job or contract she and her fellow white counterpart were bidding for, a woman with straightened hair?

Out of concern, the hairdresser decided to ask why she would not allow the relaxer on her head. 

“Oh, why do you not like relaxers on your head? I mean, the ones I have in my salon are beyond solid. They make your hair silk-soft and still maintained the original structure of their hair. Let me just add a little on your hair.”

Isioma busted into laughter. What is the name of cognitive dissonance? How would one's hair remain natural after it has been turned soft?

“Nothing. I just like my hair standing straight without any chemicals used to increase or reduce it.”

Seeing that Isioma was adamant, the hairdresser brought out an afro comb to help make her hair prepped for plaiting. Attempting to comb it, “Ouch, Take it easy,” Isioma shouted.”

After many attempts to comb Isioma’s hair, the hairdresser finally made a suggestion. 

“You know what, let me make this easier by helping you wash off all of the dirt on your hair. I will do this with the original shampoo.”

“Are you sure?” Isioma asked clearly. “I do not want any artificial products on the air that God gave me.” 

Isioma bent her head backward, over the hair-washing basin placed beside the dryer. 

Seeing that it was ordinary shampoo, she allowed the hairdresser to caress her hair with each strand filling the space between her fingers, but little did she know that the hairdresser breached the little agreement they had had earlier that day.

The hairdresser had already mixed in the shampoo bottle, a combination of both shampoo and relaxer to help stubborn customers like Isioma herself. 

Lo and behold, she opened the bottle and poured some content of the bottle into her hand. She added a little bit of water to the hollow part of her palms and made it into a lather. Isioma’s scalp was massaged with it. 

After washing and rinsing, the hair had to dry. With the hair dryer set at twenty degrees, Isioma was placed underneath the hair dryer. At first, it was hot, but later it became very much normal to her. 

After drying, the hairdresser started to cut the hair into sections. She braided it, strand after strand. It was manageable. To Isioma, it was better to carry an average-looking style to work, than to go to work with bad hair.

After braiding, Isioma paid three hundred dollars in cash to the hairdresser. She felt gladdened despite all; because she knew she could focus more on preparing for the work day ahead, but little did she know what was to come.

As soon as she got home, she started to notice little strains of hair on her head. At first, she thought it was merely the chops of hair the comb packed as the hairdresser brushed it. “Maybe it is the strand of hair that fell from the braiding, mechanical issues, maybe.”

After dinner, her hair started to fall, chop by the chop. She figured her precious hair had started to break off. 

“What in the hell did you do to my hair, this woman?” Isioma asked the hairdresser who was now doing the hair of another woman

She did not respond, and this made Isioma very furious. “I need a refund.”

“Refund? What useless refund? I am not giving you a single dime just so you know.”

This made Isioma furious. “Beautiful queens, I know you love your hair so much but this might be the worst place to get your hair treated, or plaited at that. I paid a whopping sum of three hundred dollars in cash to get my hair made and here my hair is pulling out in lumps.” She said, pulling lumps of hair to show how horrible her current state was.

Isioma stomped out of the salon treating to press charge. “I will sue your ass for every dime you have got.”

Later that day, Isioma called in from work, letting them know she would be absent from work that day. 

After calling her friend Roselyn who was a lawyer, she explained that she might not get as many damages or monetary compensation as she hoped to get in the end. 

“Yes, you can take her to court, but from the description, you have given, I do not think it a big establishment. You can make at most a thousand for this for contributory negligence, and that is it at its best. At most, the judge can award you a thousand dollars but my dear, and trust me, it is not worth the stress of going back and forth to court and paying legal fees.”

Her hair healed, and luckily she started hair treatment as soon as she could Isioma vouched never to repeat such scenarios in her life. 

On that very day, it was like she was keeping the very promise to herself as on this very day, a woman of color opened the door for her to come in. “Hello, Good Morning Ma. Welcome to Miss Tony Hair Salon. How may I help you?”