My Hair Tells of Me

This story is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, incidents and dialogues are a figment of my imagination — most definitely inspired by God and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organisations, persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Inspiration: Natural Hair.

***

It’s 2020, and the breaking news around the world is about Covid-19, the lives it’s taking, and the ones it’s yet to claim. The pandemic is disruptive - nothing is the same. Nita, a young city worker, isn’t immune to the impact of The ‘Rona - she’s barely coping, and evidence of her struggle is reflected in her appearance, specifically with her hair. However, on 4 July 2020, restrictions on hair salons have eased in the UK, and Nita has courageously booked an appointment at “Heritage Style - Natural Hair & Beauty Salon” for the same day. Could this be Nita’s chance for change? Will she get more than she paid for? Follow Nita on her brave journey as she narrates her appointment with Miss Heritage.

***

I’m standing across the street fascinated by the busyness of the hair salon — even with social distancing, and it’s only 11:30am. I spot the smiling faces of black women who’ve been eager for this day — 4 July 2020. I take a deep breath.

The green pixelated man is flashing, inviting me to the other side of the road, the side on which this hair palace stands. I’m ignoring the green man, this will be the fourth time, and I watch him turn red as if he’s angry that I didn’t move. Then, with my “public use pen,” I’m pressing the button of the signal, waiting for him to appear once more. Whilst waiting, I motivate myself, “You must cross the road! You must!” — I’ve whispered. Again, my green man has shown up. This time, it’s as if he is holding my hand and ushering me over to his side.

I make it. That wasn’t so bad.

My appointment isn’t for another 30 minutes, being late isn’t an option. My father always said, “Latecomers are not to be taken seriously.” I want to be taken seriously today.

With such timidity, I’m pushing the doors of “Heritage Style — Natural Hair & Beauty Salon”, and with the bit of strength I have left, I’ve entered. What a heavy door! Or could it be my heavy heart?

I’m greeted by a young receptionist, so full of life, eager and ready to seize the remaining hours of her working day. And, beneath her mask, I can tell she has a beautiful smile; I see it in her eyes. She asks for my name, I tell her, and she confirms my appointment, “you’ll be meeting with our lead stylist, Miss Heritage herself.”

I’m nervous.

I’m nervous because this is the first time I’ve left my flat, further than my local supermarket, since the pandemic started. It’s also the first time that I’m…

“Nita?” A vibrant, full-of-life voice calls my name with such power! I can’t remember the last time someone called my name, as if my existence was intentional. I shift slightly and offer a feeble smile. I haven’t attempted a smile in a long time.

“DARLING! Welcome! Have you been offered anything to drink? Would you like something to eat?”

Wait. Eat! Drink! I came for a hair appointment, not to be wined and dined! Do I look thirsty? Do I look hungry? But then again, the last meal I had was a few days ago. So my stomach starts growling in appreciation. Heritage laughs joyfully and tries to cup my small face in her full hands. It’s still not safe to hug or shake a hand, let alone touch my face (masked or not), so I dodge and watch her soft, pillow-like hands fall in understanding. Oh, I await the return of my sleep like a long lost relative; sleep and relatives, I don’t have much of either.

Not allowing the moment to linger, Heritage has whisked me away to a private room. The sign on the door reads “VIP ONLY”. Me? VIP? I’ve let out a laugh, and my sound frightens me.

“Heritage” is a mighty name for a mighty woman. With her weight and tree-like height, I can tell the root of her kindness runs deep. And like a tree that moves at will to the wind, she has picked up effortlessly, disappearing and reappearing with a tray of food. There’s rice and peas, oxtails, plantains, a small helping of mac & cheese, and coleslaw on my plate. My favourite, but sadly, my stomach has no room for all this food. I try to eat what I can, and I’ve allowed my eyes to consume the rest while my heart commands my appetite back. Heritage has returned and catches me inspecting the remnants of my meal.

“Don’t worry, DARLING! I’ll pack it fi yuh to take to ya yard.” Heritage smiles as she reaches for the tray, taking it back to wherever she brought it from. I wonder what she’s doing. To be honest, this is the perfect time to leave!

It’s like she’s reading my mind when she shows up again, but this time with a bag that says: “Heritage Style — Natural Hair & Beauty Salon” elegantly embossed in gold foil lettering. Heritage places the black shopping bag on the floor near my seat; I’ve peeked in the bag just as she has turned her back to get my cape. Inside are four takeaway containers stuffed with food, two cans of KA Caribbean Kola and water. This woman?

Now I have food for the week, and I don’t need to worry about queuing up at the supermarket.

Food, drink and pleasantries are done and now it’s time for the real reason I’m here.

Draped in the glory of the shiniest salon garb, I wait for Heritage to remove my woolly hat. Instead, Heritage is asking that I take it off myself.

I know what you’re thinking, “a woolly hat in the summer?”

I don’t have an answer for you, but I know that I didn’t sign up for this today.

Heritage and I are staring at each other like that meme of Diddy and that blonde-haired man — I don’t know his name — but we’re staring, and Heritage repeats, “Nita, please take your hat off.”

I need to leave. I should have never come.

I can’t leave. I need to be here. A short moment passes, permitting my eyes to moisten, and I utter a broken whisper.

“I can’t,” I confess.

I can. I should. I must, the same way I crossed the road earlier. Surely, jumping too many hurdles in a day exhausts an athlete? I’m a gold medalist in fear.

“Nita. I need to assess your hair accurately, but I can’t do that if you’re unwilling to see it. By removing your hat yourself, you’re a step closer to freedom. I can style your hair, but today and the rest of your life starts with you taking your hat off.”

I want to interrupt, but she continues.

***

Thank you for reading! Do you want to know what happens next? Then continue reading HERE.