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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