Calamity Jane #5 - Fifth Circle of Hell (Wrath and Sloth)

There are certain universal truths. One of which is that time waits for no (wo)man. It’s a fundamental fact of life which compounds our insignificance in the macrocosm that is the universe. Or so I thought…

Recall the dread that fills you on a Saturday (approximately once every four to six weeks) when it’s time to retouch, re-sew or re-whatever is necessary for our hair. You’ve cleared your diary, organised your social events to start as late in the evening as possible (or indeed postponed them for a week as there is every possibility you will return later that evening exactly as you left – only a little more jaded by life’s cruelties) and you’ve had a hearty breakfast as goodness knows when you’ll eat again. The painful thing as you drive (or worse, sit on the bus, tube, train or tram) in the dark (the sun not having yet risen) is knowing the procedure you are about to endure shouldn’t take long, although it inevitably does.

One particular occasion filled me with a wrath I have rarely experienced in my young and relatively passive life. I arrived as scheduled one Saturday morning, having phoned Keesha on numerous occasions the night before to confirm the time of my ‘appointment’. I had been particularly anxious (which Keesha must have sensed from my wails and cries down the phone) as I had a function to attend in the evening and my hair was beyond any state of repair, and wearing a hat would have been inappropriate.

I parked up in the back streets of Peckham, cautious that not even my bumper touched a yellow line as I’ve paid £50 to Southwark council on more occasions than I cared to remember (making my hair doubly expensive). I run like the wind to the salon only to find the shutters down and nobody in sight.

After hanging on the corner looking like a hooker (in the traditional attire of south London prostitute of tracksuit and trainers – very glamorous!) I go next door to God Bless Caribbean restaurant and ask for Keesha. After rambling something inaudible making no attempt at eye contact (with the restaurant being the base for the notorious Peckham Boys gang, there is no wonder she is accustomed to averting her gaze) I'm handed the keys to the salon. It seems Keesha had called her but not bothered letting me know she’d be late and I begrudgingly make my way next door watching time disappear before my very eyes.

I lift the shutters; open the doors let myself in and scream in fury. An hour passes and after turning on the radio (automatically tuned into Vibes FM) Mavado’s ‘So Special’ blaring out of the speakers, I take to the floor, headscarf flailing (yes I wore it in public), and dance the running man, with a hint of MC Hammer unashamedly for the world to see. I introduce a strange Beyonce-esq circular motion of the arms around my head, which does me no favours with my poor balance and I stumble back on to the sofa. Still no sign of Keesha and I’ve bored of calling her only for her to say “I’m round the corner” – What corner of London is a hour and a half away from Peckham? After a nap, I find a Clementine buried at the bottom of my bag and hope the sustenance will distract me from my ever growing rage. I consider going elsewhere but being 11.30am, I’d only end up queuing for an eternity for some hairdresser I don’t know or trust who will inevitably burn me, even more than my body has been conditioned to take.

Finally Keesha arrives with four loud children in toe. Expecting a profuse apology I perk up (having been asleep on the sofa), stone faced and rigid from the uncomfortable couch. ‘What is that smell?’ she almost spits at me. ‘Have you been eating oranges in ere? I hate the smell of orange, it makes me sick’. And with that she goes about settling the children and preparing her breakfast. Not one word uttered in apology for being over two hours late. I swore from that day on I would never return...

Of course four weeks passed, I was too lazy to go in search of someone new and so the cycle of my life continued.

Do not confuse what you have just read with something as trite as Black People Time. BPT doesn’t describe the magnitude of Keesha’s disregard for punctuality. She takes lateness and stamps out the considerate, leaving a hollow feeling where courtesy used to live!  

CJ