‘Three thirty,’ was all Irie managed to convey of this, ‘with Andrea.’
‘Andrea’s next door,’ replied the woman, pulling at a piece of elongated gum and nodding in the direction of Fairweather’s, ‘having fun with the dearly departed. You better come sit down and wait and don’ bodder me. Don’ know how long she’ll be.’
Irie looked lost, standing in the middle of the shop, clutching her chub. The woman took pity, swallowed her gum and looked Irie up and down; she felt more sympathetic as she noted Irie’s cocoa complexion, the light eyes.
‘Jackie.’
‘Irie.’
‘Pale, sir! Freckles an’ every ting. You Mexican?’
‘No.’
‘Arab?’
‘Half Jamaican. Half English.’
‘Half-caste,’ Jackie explained patiently. ‘Your mum white?’
‘Dad.’
Jackie wrinkled her nose. ‘Usually de udder way roun’. How curly is it? Lemme se what’s under dere – ’ She made a grab for Irie’s headscarf. Irie, horrified at the possibility of being laid bare in a room full of people, got there before her and held on tight.
Jackie sucked her teeth. ‘What d’you ’spec us to do wid it if we kyant see it?’
Irie shrugged. Jackie shook her head, amused.
‘You ain’t been in before?’
‘No, never.’
‘What is it you want?’
‘Straight,’ said Irie firmly, thinking of Nikki Tyler. ‘Straight and dark red.’
‘Is dat a fact! You wash your hair recent?’
‘Yesterday,’ said Irie, offended. Jackie slapped her up-side her head.
‘Don’ wash it! If you wan’ it straight, don’ wash it! You ever have ammonia on your head? It’s like the devil’s having a party on your scalp. You crazy? Don’ wash it for two weeks an’ den come back.’
But Irie didn’t have two weeks. She had it all planned; she was going to go round to Millat’s this very evening with her new mane, all tied up in a bun, and she was going to take off her glasses and shake down her hair and he was going to say why Miss Jones, I never would have supposed… why Miss Jones, you’re-
‘I have to do it today. My sister’s getting married.’
‘Well, when Andrea get back she going to burn seven shades of shit out of your hair an’ you’ll be lucky if you don’ walk out of here with a ball ’ed. But den it your funeral. Ear,’ she said thrusting a pile full of magazines into Irie’s hands. ‘Dere,’ she said, pointing to a chair.
P. K.’s was split into two halves, male and female. In the male section, as relentless Ragga came unevenly over a battered stereo, young boys had logos cut into the back of their heads at the hands of slightly older boys, skilful wielders of the electric trimmers. ADIDAS. BADMUTHA. MARTIN. The male section was all laughter, all talk, all play; there was an easiness that sprang from no male haircut ever costing over six pounds or taking more than fifteen minutes. It was a simple enough exchange and there was joy in it: the buzz of the revolving blade by your ear, a rough brush-down with a warm hand, mirrors front and back to admire the transformation. You came in with a picky head, uneven and coarse, disguised underneath a baseball cap, and you left swiftly afterwards a new man, smelling sweetly of coconut oil and with a cut as sharp and clean as a swear word.
In comparison, the female section of P. K.’s was a deathly thing. Here, the impossible desire for straightness and ‘movement’ fought daily with the stubborn determination of the curved African follicle; here ammonia, hot combs, clips, pins and simple fire had all been enlisted in the war and were doing their damnedest to beat each curly hair into submission.
‘Is it straight?’ was the only question you heard as the towels came off and the heads emerged from the drier pulsating with pain. ‘Is it straight, Denise? Tell me is it straight, Jackie?’
To which Jackie or Denise, having none of the obligations of white hairdressers, no need to make tea or kiss arse, flatter or make conversation (for these were not customers they were dealing with but desperate wretched patients), would give a sceptical snort and whip off the puke-green gown. ‘It as straight as it ever going to be!’
Four women sat in front of Irie now, biting their lips, staring intently into a long, dirty mirror, waiting for their straighter selves to materialize. While Irie flicked nervously through American black hair magazines, the four women sat grimacing in pain. Occasionally one said to another, ‘How long?’ To which the proud reply came, ‘Fifteen minutes. How long for you?’ ‘Twenty-two. This shit’s been on my head twenty-two minutes. It better be straight.’
It was a competition in agony. Like rich women in posh restaurants ordering ever smaller salads.
Finally there would come a scream, or a ‘That’s it! Shit, I can’t take it!’ and the head in question was rushed to the sink, where the washing could never be quick enough (you cannot get ammonia out of your hair quick enough) and the quiet weeping began. It was at this point that animosity arose; some people’s hair was ‘kinkier’ than others’, some Afros fought harder, some survived. And the animosity spread from fellow customer to hairdresser, to inflicter of this pain, for it was natural enough to suspect Jackie or Denise of something like sadism: their fingers were too slow as they worked the stuff out, the water seemed to trickle instead of gush, and meanwhile the devil had a high old time burning the crap out of your hairline.
‘Is it straight? Jackie, is it straight?’
The boys arched their heads round the partition wall, Irie looked up from her magazine. There was little to say. They all came out straight or straight enough. But they also came out dead. Dry. Splintered. Stiff. All the spring gone. Like the hair of a cadaver as the moisture seeps away.
Jackie or Denise, knowing full well that the curved African follicle will, in the end, follow its genetic instructions, put a philosophic slant on the bad news. ‘It as straight as it ever going to be. Tree weeks if you lucky.’
Despite the obvious failure of the project, each woman along the line felt that it would be different for her, that when their own unveiling came, straight straight flickable, wind-blowable locks would be theirs. Irie, as full of confidence as the rest, returned to her magazine.
Malika, vibrant young star of the smash hit sitcom Malika’s Life, explains how she achieves her loose and flowing look: ‘I hot wrap it each evening, ensuring that the ends are lightly waxed in African Queen Afro SheenTM, then, in the morning, I put a comb on the stove for approximately – ’
The return of Andrea. The magazine was snatched from her hands, her headscarf unceremoniously removed before she could stop it, and five long and eloquent fingernails began to work their way through her scalp.
‘Ooooh,’ murmured Andrea.
This sign of approval was a rare-enough occurrence for the rest of the shop to come round the partition to have a look.
‘Oooooh,’ said Denise, adding her fingers to Andrea’s. ‘So loose.’
An older lady, wincing with pain underneath a drier, nodded admiringly.
‘Such a loose curl,’ cooed Jackie, ignoring her own scalded patient to reach into Irie’s wool.
‘That’s half-caste hair for you. I wish mine were like that. That’ll relax beautiful.’
Irie screwed up her face. ‘I hate it.’
‘She hates it!’ said Denise to the crowd. ‘It’s light brown in places!’
‘I been dealing with a corpse all morning. Be nice to get my hands into somefing sof’,’ said Andrea, emerging from her reverie. ‘You gonna relax it, darlin’?’
‘Yes. Straight. Straight and red.’
Andrea tied a green gown round Irie’s neck and lowered her into a swivelling chair. ‘Don’t know about red, baby. Can’t dye and relax on the same day. Kill the hair dead. But I can do the relax for you, no problem. Should come out beautiful, darlin’.’