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.

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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