Chapter 5
Wavonne leans in toward Monique. “Girl, the smell is rank, ain’t it? I think it’s comin’ from sista girl over there.” Wavonne directs her eyes toward one of Latasha’s stylists. “Now why, when we have all that good food on the refreshments table, did she go and wolf down a tuna fish sandwich and some Doritos? Somebody best get her a breath mint before we all pass out.”
Monique narrows her brows and offers Wavonne a bemused nod. She is about to continue down the line when Wavonne, fearful she may miss her only chance to engage Monique, blurts out, “Do you like my hair?”
Monique takes a step back and gives Wavonne’s hair a look. “Ummm . . . hmmm . . . it’s quite . . . quite slick.”
“Thank you! I invented my own cream.”
“Really?”
“Yes. And my own gel, too. Pretty nice, huh?”
“Um . . . well, it’s unique.”
“It’s a secret formula,” Wavonne boasts, lightly patting her hair. “But, you know, I might be willing to share it for the right price.”
Monique laughs graciously. “Is that so? Well, I wish you much luck with it.” Monique places a finger under her nose and lifts her eyebrows as another rush of the unpleasant aroma radiates from Wavonne’s head. “I might suggest adding some rosemary oil extract . . . or vitamin E to that secret formula. They will help keep it . . . keep it from . . . turning,” she adds, her eyes rapidly blinking as one’s eyes do when they begin to water.
“What a great idea. Maybe Wavonne can try out her potions another time after she’s made them a bit more . . . shall we say shelf-stable,” Latasha suggests before calling to the shampoo girl. “Kerry, can you take Wavonne back to the sinks and freshen her up a bit. Now, please.”
“But I haven’t had a chance to tell Monique about—”
“Now!” Latasha insists through clenched teeth.
“It was very nice to meet you, Wavonne. You keep working on your creams,” Monique says right before Kerry gives Wavonne a tug on her arm, and she grudgingly allows herself, much like a cat on a leash, to be led toward the washbasins.
“Good Lord, that girl is stubborn,” Latasha says to me while Monique proceeds down the line to Momma.
“You have no idea.”
Latasha is about to introduce Monique to Momma, when the man in the suit who followed Monique into the salon brusquely invades our space with the cameraman following. Based on the way he’s been milling about the store and giving direction to the videographer, I assume he is the de facto director of whatever it is Monique is trying to capture on film. Rather than introducing himself or saying hello, he simply points at me and spouts off to the cameraman, “This one. She has nice hair. Let’s get some footage.”
Next thing I know there is a microphone in my face and Monique, who I notice already has a lapel microphone on her blouse, goes into reporter mode. With the camera centered on us, she slides closer to me and puts her arm around my waist.
“Hello to all of my Hair by Monique fans,” she begins. “We are kicking off my cross-country Wear It Straight tour here in the Washington, DC, metro area. Today we’re at Illusions in Prince George’s County, Maryland.”
I notice that the director fellow is holding up a cue card of sorts with the words “Illusions” and “Prince George’s County, Maryland” printed on it as if Monique needs reminding of where she is. I guess this makes sense, given that she will be visiting hundreds of salons all over the country, but you’d think she’d remember where she is while in her hometown.
“This is my new friend Halia,” Monique says just after the director flips to another cue card with my name on it. I didn’t even know he was within earshot when I was introduced to Monique, but it must be his job to keep track of names for her as well.
Monique turns toward me. “You have truly exquisite hair. So soft and silky. What Hair by Monique products do you use?”
“Oh . . . umm . . . I keep it simple . . . a little Johnson’s Baby Shampoo and some conditioner that was on sale at CVS . . . Pantene, I think. Sometimes I add a little—”
“Cut!” yells the director, a cross expression on his face. “Halia, is it?” There is clear annoyance in his tone. “What are you doing here if you don’t use Hair by Monique products?”
“Relax, Nathan,” Monique says. “I’ve been told that Halia supplied the refreshments for the event.” Nathan looks at Monique crossly—the way a mother might look at a child that just got smart with her. And, just for a second, I sense a crack in Monique’s jovial veneer.
“Yes,” Latasha says. “Halia owns her own restaurant . . . Mahalia’s Sweet Tea, a few doors down from here. Best soul food in town. She kindly prepared a few treats for us.”
Nathan is not impressed and, rather than expressing any enthusiasm or gratitude for my catering, he points to Momma. “Who’s that? She has nice hair as well. Does she use Hair by Monique products?”
“This is Halia’s mother and baker extraordinaire, Celia Watkins. Wait until you try her brown butter lemon poppy seed cake,” Latasha says.
“Butter and cake. Two of my favorite words,” Monique replies, leaning in toward Momma for a hug. “Lovely to meet you, Celia.”
“We’re not here for a bake sale,” Nathan bemoans, his eyes going from Momma to me and then back to Momma again. “Hmmm . . . a mother and daughter, both with nice hair, raving about Hair by Monique. Now that would be some great marketing.” He waves his hands at Momma and me. “Can you make some space for Monique in the middle?” He says this in the form of a question, but it’s really more of a command. “We’ll have Monique ask you a few questions. We merely need you to gush about her products. You,” he says to me as Monique slides in between Momma and me. “You’ll say how much you love her thickening and texturizing mousse. And you,” he barks at Momma. “You’ll rave about her deep moisturizing shampoo.”
“I actually use Ms. Dupree’s moisturizing shampoo . . . and her relaxer and restoring conditioner,” Momma says. “I’ve got a bathroom full of Hair by Monique products.”
“Perfect. Mention them all. We can edit it down later.”
“Maybe it’s best if Momma does this alone,” I say. “I’m not sure I’d know what to say. I’m certain they are very nice products, but I’ve never used that mousse you mentioned.”
Nathan sighs. “It’s not rocket science, lady. Just say you’ve been using it for years . . . that you love the product . . . that it leaves your hair soft and shiny with lots of body, blah blah blah.”
“I think I have to pass,” I say flatly, in part because I don’t want to make up lies about a product I’ve never used, but more because this Nathan guy is rude and condescending.
“Ignore him, Halia. Nathan went missing the day God was handing out manners,” Monique says, getting yet another heated look from Nathan. “How about I have my own personal stylist give your hair a quick touch-up with some of my products. Then you’ll have an idea of how good they are and can offer some honest comments.” She then calls to her associate in the purple shirt and man-leggings. “Maurice,” she beckons toward the other side of the reception area. Maurice walks toward us, and, without waiting for me to agree to her plan, Monique says to him, “Can you give Halia here a quick style? Maybe work in a little frizz-free mousse, quickly blow it out, and give it some staying power with my flexible hold spray.”
Maurice says nothing before reaching for my hair, separating a few strands, and running his fingers through them. “How much time do I have?” he asks, a displeased expression on his face. “I can take it to a B-minus in about twenty minutes, but it would be hours to take it to an A-plus.” He turns to me. “No offense, sweetie. Your hair is very nice, but you know the ole saying: ‘I’m a beautician, not a magician.’ ”
Before I have a chance to say that I, in fact, am not familiar with that saying, Monique intervenes. “Don’t be so dramatic, Maurice. She has lovely hair. Just give it a quick restyle for the camera.”
“Fine, fine,” Maurice sighs, and looks at me. “Come with me. Holly, was it?”
“Halia,” I correct as I follow him back to one of the chairs.
“Like ‘hell yeah?’” He snaps his fingers.
“Um . . . no. Like Halia. It’s short for Mahalia.”
“Oh . . . like the gospel singer. Mahalia Jackson. Got it. They were playing a remix of ‘Respect’ at the club last night.”
“That’s Aretha Franklin.”
“Huh . . . I guess you’re right.” He stops next to a vacant styling chair. “This one is as good as any.”
He gestures for me to sit in the chair, looks around, and raises his voice to no one in particular. “Can I get a smock, please?”
Kerry, who has finished combing out Wavonne’s freshly shampooed hair, rushes over with a cape and snaps it around my neck. “May I get you anything else?” she asks.
“Ummm . . .” Maurice starts rifling through the tools on the counter. “I suppose I can make do with this . . . this paraphernalia,” he adds with an upturned nose. “Can you bring me some of Monique’s mousse? The frizz-free . . . not the texturizing.”
“I didn’t realize people used mousse anymore. I thought it was a thing of the eighties,” I say.
“Monique has reformulated it and brought it back. It’s nothing like the canned fluff from back in the day. Monique’s mousse adds volume and calms frizz without making your hair crunchy. You’ll love it.”
As Maurice begins spritzing my hair with a water mist sprayer, I see Wavonne’s curious reflection in the mirror.
“Oh Lord . . . here we go,” I say quietly as she gets up from the shampoo chair and walks over, clearly wanting to know what’s going on and how she can become a part of it.
“What’s happening over here?” she asks, finally free of any offensive odors.
Maurice ignores Wavonne as he runs a comb through my now-damp hair and grabs a bottle of what I guess is Monique’s frizz-free mousse from Kerry.
“Maurice is giving my hair a quick style. Monique wants to interview Momma and me about her products. I guess Maurice is trying to make me presentable for the camera.”
“Camera?!” Wavonne says. “I wanna be on camera. How do I get in on this?” she asks Maurice.
“And you are?” Maurice inquires, dispensing a dollop of fluffy white mousse into his hand and beginning to work it into my hair.
“Wavonne. Wavonne Hix. I’m Halia’s cousin. We brought the food.”
Maurice momentarily takes his eyes off my hair and turns toward Wavonne. He runs his hand down the side of her head to feel her hair. “Oh sweetie, we’re trying to promote Monique’s products. Not have them banned in all fifty states.”
Wavonne’s mouth drops, but before she has a chance to offer Maurice a few choice words, he makes a peace offering. “I’m only joking,” he says. “Your hair is quite . . . well . . . it has . . . potential. We simply need to get you on a program . . . some keratin, some emollients, some hot oil treatments . . . there’s hope for you yet. We’ll talk later.”
“So you and Aunt Celia get to be on TV, and I don’t?”
“I’m afraid it looks that way, Wavonne.”
“Maybe we can work you in somehow,” Maurice says. “We’ll put you under a dryer and say you’re in the middle of a deep conditioning or something. Now run along and find Maurice a cocktail, would you?” Maurice says before flicking the switch on the dryer and beginning to blow out my freshly moussed hair.
I watch in the mirror as Wavonne weighs her options. She doesn’t like taking orders from anyone, so, under normal circumstances, she would likely tell Maurice to go get his own damn cocktail. But he has offered to work her into Monique’s video and possibly help her with her hair, so perhaps she has decided to keep herself on his good side . . . or maybe it’s only because there is no point in her protesting any further as even her loud mouth can’t compete with the roar of the hair dryer. But, for whatever reason, Wavonne refrains from making any biting replies and departs in search of an adult beverage for Maurice.