Kinky Nikz 2.0 - Napptural Product Connoisseur

One very positive aspect of being natural is that you tend to focus your energy on products/ ingredients you use in your hair, put on your skin and in your body. The effect is healing and has made me ever more conscience of the products I use. Growing up you’re exposed to hair grease and drying shampoo’s but I’m here to let both you naturals and relaxed chica’s and fella’s (if there are any out there!) in on a few secrets about the products out there.

Many commercially available hair care products denoted as being for afro hair use harmful ingredients. The following ingredients are awful for ethnic or African hair, not only stifling our hair’s health, true texture, and hair growth, but also harmful to the body.

1) Isopropyl Alcohol: Dries and Breaks Ethnic hair. It is found in colour rinses, anti-freeze

2) Mineral Oil/ Petrolatum (Hair Grease): It used as a moisturiser in afro hair care products; however, it coats Ethnic hair, actually preventing moisture from getting into the thirsty hair. It is a derivative of crude oil and a cheap industrial grease component. It also prevents the release of toxins from hair and alters the skin respiration by preventing oxygen release. Mmmhmmmm....

3) Polyethylene Glycol (PEG): Strips afro hair of critical moisture. Used as an emulsifier in products, dissolves oils and grease.

4) Propylene Glycol (PG): An active component in many afro hair care products make up, lotions, mouthwashes, and deodorant, PG is the active component of anti-freeze and actually deteriorates the protein and cellular structure of hair. Protein is what your hair needs to thrive. Workers actually use gloves and goggles when dealing with this substance due to its chemical side effects and toxicity.

5) Sodium Lauryl Sulfate (SLS)/ Sodium Laureth Sulfate (SLES) : A cheap foaming and thickening agent that strips hair of moisture and causes skin and scalp irritation. 95% of all hair shampoos contain this ingredient or a derivative. Avoid it completely; TEA lauryl is just as bad, if not worse. Do not be fooled by the use of the word TEA. Hence why i very rarely use shampoo and stick with conditioners.

6) Diethanolamine (DEA), Momoethnanolamine (MEA), Triethanolamine (TEA) : Usually listed as an ingredient containing a neutralising compound, i.e. as Cocamide DEA or Lauramide DEA, repeated skin applications of DEA-based detergents are known to form cancer causing nitrates

7) Avoid Hair Colouring, Rinses, and Dyes. Look on the pack of the ingredient label and check for FD & C Colours: Many individuals with afro hair experience scalp irritation due to these. If you have an irritated scalp, your hair will not grow long or remain healthy.

8) Avoid Products with Chemical Preservatives: Nearly all brands of Black and Ethnic Skin and hair care products contain hair and health harmful toxins, especially parabens that are used to extend products’ shelf lives. While these companies make huge profits, it is at the expense of your hair and health being exposed to cancer causing elements, such as formaldehyde or formaldehyde-donors which can irritate the respiratory system, cause skin reactions and trigger heart palpitations.

9) Abandon your typical beauty supply store. Curly or ethnic hair needs natural hair care products because the sulphates, chemicals, alcohols, and silicones in 99% of hair care products have a moisture stripping effect. Ethnic hair needs moisture to grow, become strong, and stay manageable. Without moisture your hair will become dry and damaged. Try Beauty 4 Ashes GodHead ( http://www.discoverb4a.com/ a great all natural) or Tigi BedHead (Tigi Bed Head Superstar Sulfate Free Shampoo 250ml a quality synthetic shampoo). Please note, I have never used these products but they have been recommended by other natural sisters.

10) Try to purchase all natural hair care products tailored for your hair type. Visit your local health foods store or find great hair care product for purchase online. The hair care industry is finally seeing the light and making hair care products that truly work for ethnic hair. Beauty 4 Ashes Christian Health & Beauty, a beauty conglomerate, acclaimed internationally, makes 100% natural ethnic hair care products for general hair health and hair growth (www.discoverb4a.com). Their products have received great ratings in the US as well.

So, there you have it, the list of products to steer clear of but in saying all of that my key advice would be to listen to your hair. If you try something that contains one or more of the above (which i have), don’t fret. If your hair enjoys it then it may not be so bad after all but at least you’re enlightened as to what exactly it is.

Peace, Love and Nappyness dudes!

KN

Kinky Nikz 2.0 - Is Natural hair healthy hair?

Before I start spewing some facts about things that can cause damage to hair I just need to share something with you all. Anyone that is a friend of mine on facebook may have seen the quote below this week.

‘Youth is wasted on the young’ Oscar Wilde

The thought process behind the quote is simple. I went home to my mums last weekend to do my laundry (don’t judge me!) and my little sister was running around talking to her friend on loudspeaker, whilst practising some dance routine. Greeting her as I stepped into the house I noticed that her hair was very straight and in two ponytails but didn’t think too much of it. Later on Saturday evening it cross my mind and I called my mum (ready for a showdown) to ask if she had relaxed my twelve year old sisters hair. When she told me that my sister had taken it upon herself to textures her own hair, I was distraught, I felt physical pain, I felt betrayed because everyone in my household is natural and I have tried my best to pass on my knowledge so she too can love her beautiful, natural hair. Since then I’ve wondered why she didn’t do as I did and look at my brother’s healthy, 11 inch afro and think that she could have the same. Why did she ruin what was naturally given to her? I have since discussed the situation among friends and come to the conclusion that children will be children and will ultimately make their own mistakes. It just hurts to know that she doesn’t quite realise what she had in the first place L.

Okay, enough about me, let me address some issues about natural hair. How many of you assume that because one may not have any chemicals in their hair that hair is healthy? Well, if that is what you think, you are wrong.

Porosity is a form of damage caused by creating more pores in the hairs structure through breaks and cracks. It can be caused by many reasons and not even you naturals can escape it so pay attention. Here are just a few causes of porosity:

1. Shampooing, towel drying and combing

These three are some of the most common reasons for cuticle damage and are called ‘mechanical damage’. It occurs when scrubbing the hair with shampoo, rubbing wet hair with a towel and combing wet hair to remove tangles. The more aggressive you are, the more susceptible your hair will be to damage. Because of this, I always ensure that I wash my hair with a non-abrasive substance such as conditioner and even then, I only wash my scalp, the conditioner/shampoo should be allowed to run down the hair shaft and take any grime with it, you should not have to tug on your wet hair. I also ensure that I pat my hair dry if I use a towel or I use a softer material like an old T-shirt and I never comb my hair when it is soaking wet, I will only tackle it when it has air dried for a while and is damp.

2. Light

UV light/ sunlight also damages the cuticle with a study from the Journal of Cosmetic science showing that damage starts after 200 hours of exposure which is a fairly long time. So when you are off on those fabulous beach holidays try and take a hat and a conditioner with sun protection to prevent your hair from frying whilst you’re trying to catch some colour.

3. Chemical Treatment (relaxing, bleaching etc)

All of these processes are an open invitation to porosity on a grand scale. Cuticle lifting, cracks, holes and entire sections of the hair structure missing are common with these types of treatments hence the thinning of the hair over time.

4. Environmental conditions

As we all know, the British temperature sits a below 10 degrees about 70% of the year and the cold air and wind has serious effects on your hair. Even though I end up looking like a 15 year old, I try to keep my hair in protective styles for most of the winter and have done well so far this winter. I generally only undo my hair to wash it or if I’m making an effort to dazzle on the dance floor! Other than that my hair stays tucked away and moisturised until the sun comes out.

5. Long Hair

     Those blessed with longer lengths often take their tresses for granted but remember, the          longer the hair, the older the hair, which means that it is more likely to become damaged due to the fore mentioned elements. Don’t get lazy, hold onto that drive you had when you were trying to get your hair to reach your belly button (yes that is my aim) and show your hair some love. Be sure to deep condition with different products so your hair can get the many benefits. I definitely recommend henna which is a strengthening protein treatment and I am looking forward to trying honey, yoghurt, mayonnaise and some other homemade mixes when I have the time and energy!

HENNA WAX ORIGINAL

 HAIR CONDITIONER 400GM

 NATURAL CLASSIC

Sad times, I am at my word limit already…be sure to get at me next week when I’ll be taking moisture to new levels.

Peace, love and Nappyness

KN

Calamity Jane #9 - Ninth Circle of hell (Treason)

As abruptly as it all began, it ended. ……………..

Sadly not as Hollywood would have intended; with a me walking away, pride in hand, wearing an Armani suit with shoulder pads, four inch Manolo’s, my (fake) hair swishing in the wind (think Working Girl circa 1980s), having eventually tired of the perilous bi-weekly trips to the salon, where I was physically and emotionally endangered.

No... That kind of ending belongs in fairy tales, or the modern day equivalent – Fake DVDs sold by the China man on Brixton Hill... Ironically the catastrophe that was my hairdressing experience was cut short not because I finally saw sense and walked away, but rather, because without warning Keesha, packed up shop and walked away.  In her traditional style, she did so without a second thought for the very people one would assume she would value – her clients!

Subsumed by the torrent of abuse I’d received from friends and family for my addiction fuelled persistent trips back to Keesha. Made worse by the indoctrination of my younger susceptible sister (I got her hooked and like crack it consumed her), I was ill prepared for the act of treason (or sadistic irony) that was to befall me. 

It all happened when........

With no appointment (I had quickly realised appointments were a trite semblance of order that simply did not exist in the mechanics of this salon) I took myself one Saturday morning to Peckham for a steam and a shape up. Prepared as I was for the inevitable wait with book in arm, iPod in ear, packed lunch in bag, I wasn’t surprised to find the shutters down.  I trotted along to God Bless Caribbean restaurant next door to the woman, whose arse was literally the size of a small country (I’m all for back-off but DAMN!) and requested the key to let myself in......

‘Gone you say, gone where?’... ‘I don’t know darling’ was her unconvincing response. In a panic I tried all four of Keesha’s numbers only to find the lines completely dead or diverting to voicemail. With all those numbers, it baffled me that she was so often in contactable. Hmmmm immigration? I pondered.

So, just like that with a simple exchange of stifling pleasantries, I learnt that Keesha had moved on and I was back to square one with mashed up hair, seeking a slamming cheap salon.

You see for all the waiting, the occasional burns, the stolen merchandise, the violence, bordering on child abuse, the salon remained my own private sanctuary. A place where crudeness was the order of the day and time had no common place. It provided me with countless tales that have enriched many a dinner party, and for that I will be eternally grateful.

Thank you for reading my jaunt through the inferno, which although not the requiem of spirituality Dante would have intended it be, turned out to be an entertaining exploration of the soul of the south (London that is).

For now I bid you adieu.

CJ

Blackhairstudio would like to thank Calamity Jane for her fabulous and hilarious contribution to our blog, your Nine Circles of Hell have been nine moments of pleasure for us. We hope you will be back soon!

DQ.

Kinky Nikz 2.0 - Learning how to maintain your naps

How many of you remember lifting your shoulders to your ears and wincing in pain as your mother dragged a comb through your tightly coiled hair? Or loving that you get to undo your braids but hating when wash day came around? My first memories of a young girl with natural hair were never associated with positivity, just pain and unhappiness. As soon as my plaits were let loose I used to jump around and shake my head like the women on the television advertising hair products but I dare anyone to try and hold me down to get it washed...It was horrible and I swear my mum was trying to drown me. 
It is easy to reflect and laugh at the whole experience but I’m pretty certain that the actions of our parents/hairdressers is what allows those with thick curly/coily hair believe that are hair is unruly, unmanageable and bad. It makes us believe that this is the type of hair that needs to be tamed when the truth is; it was just never cared for properly. So, I thought that I would scrape the surface this week and discuss a few key factors that will ensure healthy, long (yes long!), afro hair.

1. No, dirt does not grow your hair lol

Growing up I was often told that I shouldn’t wash my hair too often as it was bad for your hair and would make your hair break. Seriously, this was the belief and I know people that only washed their hair every six months because apparently this was fact. What nonsense! The truth is that washing your hair often and using the right products can have a really positive effect on afro hair. Water is one of the few substances that can actually penetrate the hairs cuticle and acts as a moisturiser, hence why your hair always feels soft when wet. A problem only occurs when the hair is not fully cared for following a wash and moisture is not replenished. I will discuss the different moisturising products and methods in another blog.

2. Use the right equipment

I’m sure that most of you realise that to avoid breakage you should use a wide toothed comb to detangle hair when wet or damp but your comb should be seamless. Check the inside and edges of your comb and the line that goes down each tooth for bad manufacturing which can mean that the seams overlap and snag the hair during combing. Bone combs are typically made of resin and are seamless, wooden combs spread the scalps natural oil throughout the hair and tortoise combs glide through hair. Check out Sally’s beauty supply shop to find ‘tenderheaded accessories’ or ‘honeyfig’ which supply a seamless comb range. 
If you prefer brushes, try the trusty denman brush or if you feel like splurging the mason pearson combs and brushes although it does nothing but give me split ends.

3. Combing your curlies

Stop combing your hair so much! Excessive grooming can cause split ends. When I tell people that I very rarely comb my hair they look surprised but all l I need is my fingers. I spritz my hair with some water and coconut oil or an everyday conditioner (usually Pantene/ Aussie moist) and finger comb or use my metal rat tail comb for straight partings when I’m plaiting it. I would not even attempt to rake a comb through my dry hair, the more tightly curled your hair is the more gentle you need to be, so I gently comb through my hair from tip to root on wash day and then leave it alone. If I need to manipulate it into a style then a little conditioner and some braids or twists generally does the trick.
Detangling knotted hair 
It’s a good idea to detangle your hair before washing it. Once hair is wet, the cuticles can lift, causing hair to snarl even further.


1. First, identify the tangle and separate it from the rest of your hair with your fingers.
2. Start at the bottom of the tangle and use the detangling comb to gently start picking through the snarl.
3. Work your way up the tangle until you’re able to comb through it without tugging. This may take a lot of patience and you may need to turn the detangling comb sideways and use a single tooth on the end of the comb to work through a very tight snarl.
4. To prevent tangles in the future, be sure to comb out your wet hair after shampooing, conditioning and applying a leave-in conditioner. (Never, ever brush wet hair – hair is very fragile when it’s wet and a brush could stretch the fiber, causing it to snap).
That’s all for now folks but next week I will be talking more about hair processes that work.


KN

Kinky Nikz 2.0 - Can nappy really mean happy?

Hey Chipolatas,

Thanks for the amazing response to last week’s blog. It’s a good thing you can all appreciate a bit of honesty, because honestly, a bit of honesty’s always honestly appreciated! 


So, I was thinking about what to write about next; could you ingest wise words, digest balanced advice and have a giggle… while patting your head and rubbing your belly?
Seriously, since I really can’t do any of that I thought it best stick to what I know.
Pondering on what part of this epic journey I should blog about, I figured how else to start but with natural perceptions. The things people think about you and don’t say. The things people assume because you wear your hair a certain way. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that naturalistas are the only people that come across such judgemental attitudes but having had relaxed hair for 10 years, the reactions from various people are often quite telling.
I’m sure every natural has heard “your hair is so nice but I couldn’t do that, my hair is too nappy.”…Hello, we have the same kind of hair!


Now, the thing that is sad but oh so true is that the bad reactions I get are from black people. People of my own race, those that have similar hair and skin to mine, those that should understand the struggle to stay natural in a Eurocentric society that is far removed from our natural selves. You’d think they’d understand…but do they? Do they ever? Now, I will talk about the reactions from men another time, another post but for now, let me draw your focus to black women.


So, what is it about a natural hair that get’s black women emotional? From the looks I get from some, I would assume it’s either the sheer disdain for what lies under their own weaves, relaxers or braids or perhaps in actual fact they honestly believe that they are somehow above you and well out of your league because they have straight hair. And it’s true, I should know. I used to be that girl sniggering with my friend because some girl’s hair didn’t blow in the wind. But when I think about it, I was actually a bit jealous, we all were. The girls that donned their natural hair generally had loads of it, thick hair that was not easily tamed. We all wanted that hair and needed the confidence to just be. 
That was way back when but as an adult I encounter the same attitudes. The need to change what is naturally given to us. It does make me wonder about the psyche of some people? If you dislike your hair so much that you would pay someone to burn it into submission, then what else would you do to change? Where does it end? Now, do not get me wrong, I am all for change be it physical or mental but having this mass of protein on my head has made me focus on my inner being, understand my culture and it has even made me question the kind of person I am. Because I am not the person that questions the beauty of the darkest skin, the fullest lips and the widest nose. I can appreciate the shortest, curliest of hair that reaches for the sun just as much as I can love caramel skin and straight hair that hangs long.


So, to the question, can nappy really mean happy I say YES, because nappy is real and only through being natural have I learnt to truly understand my culture and gain a sense of self that was never apparent before.
Only through being nappy (and I mean this in a positive way) have I learnt the real implications of the things I put in my body and on my skin. I have a better understanding of the food that the government so readily provides and the chemicals that pollute them but let’s no go to deep this week. I’m simply happy being nappy because nappy is a better me.


KN

In Pursuit of Nappyness… Introducing Kinky Nikz 2.0

Hi Bloggesphere,

I heard about this website a few weeks ago and thought it was a great idea. What a great opportunity to showcase my fabulous writing skills (J) and say a lot about… well, stuff! But then I was actually given the opportunity to write my first blog and I was stumped; what was I going to say? What would I call myself? I mean, would anyone give a flying Kcuf? Answer: probably not. But hey, does it really matter? I decided to approach the blog like most other things in my life, head on, without fear and with positive karma or as my boyfriend say’s, ‘enter any action with boldness!’. 

So, here goes. I thought it only right to begin with letting you know who I am and what gives me the right to evade your mind space.

I am the kind of person who likes change…often. So when I was thinking about a new hairstyle for probably the third time in 2008, my colleague suggested I grow an afro so they can hide things in it. You may well laugh but, to be honest, it wasn’t a bad idea (the growing part). So I spoke to the very few natural haired ladies that I know to help make my decision. I mean, I have only dealt with short relaxed her for my whole adult life, what was I about to do with a ‘fro?

I mean, don’t get me wrong, I cut my hair for fun on the worst days but this time it was different. This time I would let it grow back naturally.

Now, when you think about it, this should have no bearing on my decision. The aim is to grow my hair naturally (okay, I know you got that much), the way God intended it to come out of the follicles on my epidermis but yet I had to research and ask questions about what to expect. These days that just doesn’t sit right with me, why is this information not already apparent? I digress…after much deliberation and in an ‘I AM my own woman’ moment after an argument with my boyfriend, I sat in a barbers chair in Willesden and told him to shave my head, shave it clean.

I remember walking out of the barber smiling hard at this new liberation, I was bald, bold and free. If I had a convertible SLK I would have driven off into the sunset down the M1. Instead, I rubbed my head and jumped on the 266 back home to Harlesden.

Okay, so I have now cut my hair, of course there has to be a collation of thoughts and opinions and a general consensus on the new ‘do’. Everyone loved it, except my mum who gave me a nonchalant “when are you going to leave your head alone” (she is now very bored of my spur of the moment style changes!). There was just one more tiny thing, I was yet to see the man in my life and thought that turning up at his upcoming club night looking like earth mother was the ONLY thing to do. Let’s just say he approved. J

So anyway, to cut a long story short, let’s fast forward 1 year and 9 months and I love my fro, it’s 6 inches, it’s fierce, it’s me. I care for it like I would my first born child, we‘ve been through learning, misguidance, pain, disappointment, love and hate. My hair has taken me on a journey, it has dictated my lifestyle, it has made me feel unattractive and yet made me beam with pride.

Now, I’m no Oprah, and i will not be handing out a free car for tuning in next week but I will be sharing what I have learnt on my pilgrimage to nappturality. The products that scientifically work for black hair and ones that worked/ work for me, hair care regimes and all things natural. Please feel free to post any questions that you may have in the future and happy reading!!!

Kinky Nikz

Calamity Jane #6 - Sixth Circle of Hell (Sacrilege)

Sometime around 1988 Public Enemy roared ‘Don’t believe the hype’ down the microphone amidst police sirens, fierce looking dogs, burnt out cars, a boy on a bike with one side of his t-shirt draped loosely over one shoulder with his hair uncombed under an enlarged baseball cap, and the usual rigmarole that marks a hip hop video!

How true Public Enemy’s words ring as I recall the stories my friends (almost smug in their delivery), have told me of their wonderfully punctual hairdressers, who called if they were running late, offered them tea or coffee when they arrived, attended to them and only them throughout the duration of their appointment and advised them how to look after their hair and the best products to use in between visits to the salon.  Ha!!! Well I didn’t believe them then and I don’t believe them now. I know our fate and no amount of self deception can lull me in to a false sense of security.

One such perpetrator of this delusional ‘delightful hairdresser’ syndrome as I call it, was my best buddy, Yinka, whose soul aim in life was to condemn my choice in hairdresser; despite the fact that she always praised my hair, but believed the sacrifice in attaining the style was simply too great. In Yinka’s defence, she was always the one I called in floods of tears, in a rage, on the verge of murder and the all the other aggressive emotions, Keesha had managed to bring out in me. So she had a slightly compromised view of her.

Now I am not one to revel in the misfortunes of others, but I recall a tale or two about Yinka’s misfortunes at hairdressers, that make my tales pale in to insignificance. Of course these had been consigned to the dustbin of history (as far as Yinka is concerned) but for today I have reclaimed them to disprove the ‘delightful hairdresser’ syndrome once and forever.

Up at the crack of dawn, (I’m spotting a theme here of us waking up earlier than the light, just to make it to the salon – only to wait some more) Yinka makes her way to Camberwell for ‘appointment’ at the hair salon. At £25 for a weave it’s more of a conveyor belt than a salon. Camberwell is a typical cosmopolitan south London suburb yet to experience regeneration. Pockets have been gentrified, usually where the white people live, but the high street where the black folks dwell, resembles any sprawling African market. Therefore seeing Yinka and her kin folk, sat queuing from 8am outside a hair salon which is yet to open (on a stool she has brought from home), on the sidewalk of the busy high street was as common a sight as plantain in Peckham. 

Women came prepared, some having brought porridge, flasks of hot tea, carnation milk, books and magazines for entertainment (the black girl scouts). Whilst others (the inexperienced first timers) stood shivering, mouths parched, afraid to run to the shop across the road for fear of losing their spot in the queue. No bond of female solidarity was going to make a sister hold another sisters place in the line. In this pre dawn battle of the will, being prepared counts, as it’s every woman for herself.  The doors finally opened and the bargain basement weave shop is ready for business. With only three girls on the early shift, it meant at least another 1.5 hours wait before Yinka is finally seen; at least she’s inside, having been rescued from her stool on the street corner.  

On another occasion in another hair salon across town in New Cross, where the pre-dawn queuing on a stool was a thing of the past and the service was professional (other than the lecherous husband of the salon owner who thought customer service meant inviting Yinka on a date when his wife was out of sight). The delusional ‘delightful hairdresser syndrome’ was as close to reality as Yinka had imagined. Until a bi-weekly appointment went horribly wrong and brought the delightful hairdresser dream crashing down…

Having had the same conservative hair style for many years, which suited but didn’t inspire her, Yinka decided to embrace a new look. After very specifically explaining her vision to her hairdresser, using magazine cut outs as a visual guide, Yinka was aghast to find her hairdresser proceeded to cut her hair into a style SHE saw fit and ‘hacked it bald’  (to use her words exactly). In reality it was more of a bob, so high at the back it resembled T-Boz’s (TLC) circa 1990’s cut, which back when Yinka was 12 years old was all the rage, but a bit of an anomaly in the city of London age 28 in the late noughties.

A year of perpetual hair braiding followed, until the damage was suitably repaired!

Ladies no more lies. No more pretending to one another. Rich or poor; high end salon in Knightsbridge or back street shanty in Peckham, lets embrace the inevitable humiliation, anger, rage together – why oh why do these hairdressers do this to us?.

CJ

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

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 #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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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.