Calamity Jane #4 - Fourth Circle of Hell (Greed)

As an African, my fancy dress attempts at school (a fetish we blacks neither dare nor care to understand) were never up to par and the concept of it still leaves me mystified. As my friends exerted energy (their mothers up, all night sewing and stitching and sweating until the dawn) creating a teenage mutant ninja turtle outfit from scratch; my mother would simply blot some black powder on my face, draw dots with her eye liner, and with the rest of my body adorned in my usual get up, send me off to school as Anansi, the folk character (spider) only blacks had heard of. And there were to total of four of us in my school. Two of whom were related to me.

Non school uniform day, by comparison, was the social event of my year. Weeks were spent planning meticulously, discounting every outfit in my wardrobe and justifying to my mother the benefit of a trip to view the latest collection at Tammy Girl.  The hair, (remembering it is pre relaxer as I wasn’t old enough for the chemicals), raw and rock hard. Being surrounded by little girls with spindly legs (even as a child I had strong thighs, or athletic as my sports coach would refer to my physique) and long flowing blond locks that whispered menacingly in the wind, I knew I had to impress….

The braids were removed, washed, blow dried (breaking the forks of more than one comb as it fought its way through my wild roots to freedom) and combed ‘down’ to my delight. Move over Shingai (Noisettes), I was rocking my hard core fro, loud and proud, way back in the day! There was the obvious ‘can I touch it?’, but I was impervious to any mocking about the height as opposed to length of my hair. My greed for the bigness outweighed my childish desire to blend in with my (melanin deprived) peers.

  

My big hair wasn’t limited to my childish fro of yesteryear, but spawned a desire (even if it meant a return to the ‘can I touch it’?) for the big, the bad and the most brazen hair I could muster. The bigger the better, except of course when referring to the size of my thighs, arms or butt…

The only problem with my desire for big hair is that my head is relatively small by most standards. Imagine the wig Erykah Badu is rocking on her new album and you have some concept of the scale of my hair.

I was greedy for more, and what started off as a modest afro, spawned into a manifestation of my rejection of the straight, glossy, relaxed, homogenous hair of the masses. Keesha happily slapped on the hair (she’s like that with weave – there’s no holding back), using pack after pack, weaving and gluing to produce the lolly pop effect.  Like all things taken to excess at some point you can’t take anymore. I bored of the look (having revolutionised hair care, black women are in the enviable position of being able to radically change their hair from one look to another) and constructed a new image, premised on natural and boyishly short hair, to which Keesha simply said...NO!

It was then that the natural hair prejudice was revealed. You see it was acceptable for me to sew a mass of hair on to my head, but to cut it off to its natural state and this woman who once veered away from enforcing her opinion about my hair choices, was quick to speak with authority and certainty. She felt it necessary to save me from myself and after so bullishly endeavouring on this plight, like a child in a corner (in God Bless of all places) I backed down, afraid of the result that would ensue (Keesha had the scissors and I was scared of what she’d do) and haplessly resigned myself to a fate of wigs and weaves.

CJ.

Calamity Jane #3 - Third circle of hell (Gluttony)

I am in pain as the relaxer takes its toll on my scalp. Precious sees me whimper and sprays oil sheen on my tender scalp, which apparently alleviates all head pain as well as bringing shine to dull hair :-|
I stare bemused, tearful, frustrated with her unwillingness to relive me of my pain. She is in on the ‘conspiracy’. Indeed it is people like Precious (planted strategically in salons up and down the country) who safeguard this ancient ‘conspiracy’, tasked with passing it on from generation to generation.

A memory (many of you will share) was preparing for school on Sunday evening; sitting stone faced, body rigid, fists clenched, in between my mother’s thighs (strong and firm) pinning me down as she pulled, parted and plaited the bushy, unrelaxed, raw, as God ordained it, hair. Dad avoided eye contact; I often screamed and occasionally (pride permitting) cried, my sister sniggered, as mum did what was necessary to tame the wild beast…. I can smell the hair pomade now. I always marvelled (that’s not true - I was enraged with jealousy) at how effortlessly my mum went to work on my sisters hair.  Soft and silky, mum whizzed through it without even the faintest yelp.

Then my day finally came (much older than the other girls, who were doing it from as young as seven or eight, along with wearing stilettos and red lipstick – need I say more?), and I went to the salon to tame the beast forever. Now this is Milton Keynes in the 1990s (when my dad would say hello to every black person who passed us in town because he knew them) and every black woman (irrespective of age) went to the same salon, where the stylist knew only one style – the bob, but I wasn’t upset; the individual in me was yet to be born (like most teenagers I was happy to be a clone).

My coarse hair required additional coaxing and it seemed for all eternity my scalp was to bear the brunt of this. I recall my mum laughing with one of my aunties as I complained about the discomfort, who chimed in agreement, that ‘in order for a woman to achieve beauty, first there must be pain’. BANG! There it was… the ‘conspiracy’ that has come to plague my existence. It was one of the first lessons of life I recall my mother teaching me, and for her unreserved pearls of wisdom I am grateful. In some subtle guise we were all taught the same lesson which I have no doubt will without conscience be passed on to our daughters and their daughters after them.

As an adult I see the tell tell signs…Or I it tale tale?.. Hmmm, I’m never sure when it comes to traditional British sayings whether I’ve got it right, or I’m reciting the ‘Africanisation’ of the phrase, that I’ve picked up from my parents (it’s the plight of the second generation immigrant)....

Anyway back to the ‘signs’… We’ve all seen the girl who took the ‘conspiracy’ too far and let the relaxer do some serious damage to more than just their hair, all for the sake of a misguided sense of beauty. You can spot them on the tube, on the bus, in their cars, sunglasses adorned Jackie O style, scarves wrapped surreptitiously around their necks, (even in the summer) because they are ashamed….

Ashamed of the ghastly bright pink mark of raw exposed flesh (as a result of over zealous use of the relaxer cream – the sign of a BAD hair dresser), often on the earlobe, forehead, back of neck and cheek (yes that’s possible and I’m not ashamed to say it was me). They are the victims of the songs sung by our mothers and their mothers before them; passed down to the droves of successful, intelligent modern women walking the streets of Anfield, Moss Side, Brixton and Peckham. The song that says beauty comes to all those willing to suffer.

                                                        


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Calamity Jane #2 - Second Circle of Hell (Lust)

I would not say I am particularly prudish, nor am I outlandish and flagrant about my sexual conquests, but in the house of God Bless anything goes and is for all to hear; well as much as one can hear patois in all its free flowing glory. Sadly, my subtle Ghanaian/Milton Keynes/London range does not extend to the patois dialect and I am left smiling and nodding emphatically attempting to convey understanding whilst eagerly hoping to avoid being drawn into conversation.

For all my English cynicism (a colonial heritage passed down from generation to generation) it’s strangely liberating being surrounded by people who are so sexually uninhibited and see nothing demeaning about expressing their lust and its varied manifestations free from fear of reprisal. Indeed I think they derived a sordid pleasure in recounting their tales in as public a forum as the salon offered.

My favourite tale and believe me there are many to chose from, followed the arrival of the ‘gang’ and their copious children one particular Saturday afternoon. There was:

The woman who sells the plastic jewellery, which is often pretty from a distance but up close each rhinestone has an unintentional mist and the string holding the beads together is weathered and unable to stand the duration of an evening sat in a restaurant let alone raving.

The woman who supplies stolen clothesto every salon within the south east London corridor. Occasionally the tags are ripped out, but it is clear as day that they descend from the aisles of Topshop, River Island or whichever high street store she’s just jacked.

The man selling food (£5 for a portion of rice and jerk chicken; curry goat; fried rice and some bean concoction) which I always look forward to after an eight hour stint in the salon.

The woman who is just always there, I guess the salon is a social networking hub, so why not be there?

Precious (one of the two hair dressers, working alongside Keesha) is having man troubles. There is the ‘African man’, (never specific about country) who is a bit of a bug-a-boo, but pays the bills so has his uses. There is the Jamaican man with the fancy sports car that pulls up occasionally and goes in to the very popular God Bless Caribbean restaurant next door (yes ladies, ‘God Bless’ is a bigger brand than you know), but I’m not sure if he’s giving her any play as he barely ordains us with his presence and gives a fleeting nod of the head on route to the pressing priority of food. Then there is the young English (black British) boy she’s in to. I should add, Precious is in her mid thirties, I can’t imagine any of the men she’s discussed so far have quite made it to thirty yet…. Girl likes to be in control! In and amongst all of these men there is also the baby father, who is rarely discussed and seems a distant memory whose only success was spawning the child and now brings nothing but grievance.

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When Precious asked me if I liked English boys I was a little flummoxed. I’d never given nationality much thought, only really race. Time seemed to move at a glacial pace as I sweat thinking of a witty yet vague quip; I’m rarely asked a direct question and as I wanted to be accepted by the gang, I’m mindful that my answer needed to be good. The moment passed and I realised it was a rhetorical question and I was resigned to the role of mute observer, listening to a barrage of tales of sex IN the city, interspersed with dancing (children and mothers sharing the floor) and demonstrations of the some of their best moves in the bedroom.

Raucous does not describe the scene that ensued. As my relaxer began to fizzle and my pores screamed out in pain, Precious sprayed some oil sheen on my tender scalp, as though it were ample substitute for washing the damn thing off. I sat in God Bless, chomping on some crisps (awaiting the rice and peas which would serve as lunch and dinner) amongst virtual strangers listening to tales of lust, love and all the stuff in-between.

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Thank you!

Calamity Jane #1 God Bless Hair Salon!

You know the type of place….. We all do. It’s the cross we are born to bear as black women. And for those that have evaded this destiny that befalls us, I salute you, knowing the thought of it still rests uneasy in your soul; waking you at night in a cold sweat, tatty Louis Vutton headscarf (bargain from East Street market) strewn aside as a constant reminder of what is at stake.



God Bless hair salon, nestled deep in the urban sprawl of Peckham, or as the Guardian reading, fine art painting, latte drinking, south London gallery going newest wave of residents to the area would have you believe; located on the cusp of East Dulwich.

God Bless is the place where the down and out, the on their way up and the damn I finally made it descend to have their hair done. Why? Because Keesha, the enigmatic virtuoso stylist (adds more pazzaz than simply saying hairdresser) is amazing!
The problem…. In order to get the haircut that leaves you looking edgier than Rihanna (hopefully a little more considerate of any large forehead issues), or the weave that’s blows further and longer than Beyonce’s (lace front is expensive so ladies bear this in mind when you want to emulate Mrs Knowles Carter. Glue is not the answer) or the braids that put Brandy’s (think the Moesha era) to bed, we must endure what Dante’s Divine Comedy so aptly described as the circles of hell. If Dante thought he had it bad, bopping (pre-Timberlands, but you know the sort) around the Inferno with his homeboy Virgil, chasing after some chick, Beatrice, I challenge him to a day in our world - Peckham, Brixton, Stratford, New Cross or any of the plethora of non gentrified locations we embrace for the sake of hair.




First Circle of hell (Limbo)
I have heard it said before…. probably on Sex And The City which I’ve watched so often it’s blurred my reality and I have started describing people as the characters in the show not only to convey superficial traits such as style or size or hair colour, but actual defining characteristics…. As though every woman in the world is either a Samantha ‘sex crazed, ambitious, diva’ Jones or Miranda ‘cynical and perpetually troubled’ Hobbs or Carrie ‘self interested, self important pain in the arse’ Bradshaw or Charlotte ‘prudish, but ended up with the best man’ York….
Where was I? That’s right, I’m plagiarising Candace Bushnell… I have heard it said before that a New York woman is always searching for three things; The perfect job (who isn’t?); The perfect apartment (ain’t that the truth. I’ve lived in enough rat infested shoe boxes in this fair city to know landlords have the audacity to charge you £120 a week for the ‘privilege’ of over looking the DLR) and the perfect relationship (call me Miranda… but does such a thing exist?). Well I know any black New Yorker, Londoner, Parisian or indeed a black woman living anywhere on the globe, would add hair dresser to that list.

A hair dresser to black women is what a tanning salon has become for white women (since they caught their men downloaded images of Beyonce and Eva Mendes as their screen savers). Both are equally capable of making the best and the worst of us. Superficial perhaps, but unequivocally essential.

Like most women I’m always in search of a good hair dresser; My definition of which is, someone who uses the best products (KeraCare, Organics, Wave Nouveux – Yes ladies the 80s are back and curly perm is making a rampant come back), knows how to cut (into a style and not just trim the edges of that circa 1985 bob) and is affordable (£30 for a relaxer, £20 for a steam, £40 for a weave, £10 for a cut). I need someone who is capable of delivering my experimental looks, who can cut and weave and glue whatever is necessary to deliver that style. I’m not of the pretentious ilk who pays the earth for a mediocre haircut in Knightsbridge, because white people recognise the name of the salon, so it must be good. Nor do I wish for a weave that looks like it was done by a visually impaired, bald Norwegian monk, who has never come across scissors, let alone human hair, glue and a skull cap (Naomi take note – you can take the girl out of South London, but sometimes you need to keep a little bit of the South London in the girl – In particular the hair region). A hair dresser is like a doctor, there to pick you up when you are low and help you recover from the abuses life has thrown at you and return the spring to your high heeled step.

My former hair dresser (the ultimate fashionista whose afro weave attracted me and every Jon B looking man in the room) was moving back to Holland and I was at odds with how next to do my hair and most significantly where to go to find that trusted stylist. Limbo doesn’t describe my sense of loss, especially as a woman who so frequently changes her hair style, I needed someone fast – It was week five and the current weave had to go.

My soirée with the God Bless hair salon was not a singular steadfast decision spurred on by a self-deprecating advert (an oxymoron I know) in a glossy magazine, but rather the kind of relationship spawned from habit and a certain unhealthy addiction to cheapness. Besides you’re more likely to hear God Bless being advertised on one of south east London’s finest pirate radio stations. Metro Loves Radio aka MLR is my personal favourite and the ad about the big bootie Giarrl clothing range cracks me up every time.

I stumbled upon a client of Keesha’s (I later discovered all her clients were her friends, so her professional manner, which had never been honed, left much to be desired) one summers afternoon strolling through the fume packed aisles of Morrison’s in Peckham, where on a Saturday you are sure to experience the great spectrum of humanity scoping the aisles for a bargain or at the very least crack. Always feeling the need to pay a compliment when it is so clearly due (women don’t do that enough to one another), I dodged the missile throwing army of children (all with a Mohawk – it was the summer of 2008 and Pharrell Williams had a lot to answer for), approached the lady with the sharp crop and asked where she had gotten her hair done. From that day forth a relationship was born. A relationship which took me from a ramshackle barbers in Peckham where the men leer, the stylists fight (normally over who has used whose products and who slept with whose man – the anger is always in equal measure) and the DVDs are all copies, where she was first based, to a shed next to a bike shop in Camberwell and finally to my spiritual home, God Bless.

SEE you next week for more frolics at God Bless.
I should say that, I have changed any of the names of the people in this blog, although God Bless Salon really does exist, however it has been taken over by new management and Keesha no longer works there. Good luck tracking her down, it’s a feet which has thus far evaded me.

Welcome to our Blog

Hello!

I'm Dionne Quarshie, Owner of Blackhairstudio - soon to become your one-stop shop for information about afro, frizzy and curly hair. At the moment me and my trusty team are working hard (very hard) to get blackhairstudio.com up and running. In the mean time I asked my dear friend Jane to dish the dirty about her experiences hair raising experiences as she battles her way through the salons of London as she tries to find the one that will give her the least drama and the best hair... lets see how she gets on.

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In the mean time - Enjoy!

Dionne xxx