London, England, March 20, 1966
Felicity’s bathroom at Mrs. Dinnerstein’s was even chillier than the rest of the house, with barely enough room to maneuver between the toilet, sink, and tub. To wash her hair, she had to plug the meter so that the water ran hot, which in actuality meant lukewarm, and then either sit in the tub and bend her head underneath the tap or stand over the sink and do the same. In preparation for this adventure, she had visited a beauty shop in Lewisham after class. Claude had recommended the salon, which was at such a distance from the Guildhall that it involved changes at two Tube stations. He had offered to go with her the next weekend, and she had agreed, but then invented a rehearsal and gone by herself as a surprise.
Faye’s Place smelled of spices simmering in a pot, the sizzle of coconut oil evaporating through the teeth of a hot comb, and the sweet chemical mix of shampoo suds. Calypso music blared through a radio, just as it had done in Grenada when Felicity had visited eight years ago. Customers sat in leather chairs with their heads streaked white with lye or bristling with rollers and topped with hooded dryers. Mannequin busts topped with wigs lined every wall except for one, which held shelves of endless rows of bottles and pots. Felicity stood in front of them, trying to decide what to buy.
“Hello, love,” said a stylist to Felicity. She was dressed stylishly in a patterned mini, her own hair straight and shiny. “Do you need a relaxer?”
“No,” Felicity said. “I just need to buy some hair pomade.”
“Oh,” the stylist said. “You’re one of those girls who does her own hair at home? No wonder your edges are so frizzy. Pretty hair like yours, I could nice that up for you quick-quick. Come in once a week and I’ll have you sorted.”
“I don’t want to wear it straight anymore,” Felicity said.
The stylist stepped back and sucked her teeth. “You’re one of those Americans, talking about Black is beautiful, then. Easy for you to say.”
Felicity remembered Marlene’s outburst at Christmas, but this time, she would not be cowed. “I can go somewhere else and buy what I need,” she told the stylist.
The stylist pointed. “Get that one and that one,” she said. “Put the lotion on when the hair is wet and comb it through good-good. Twist up the curls around your fingers, understand? Then use the gel to harden them, and when it’s almost dry, use this pomade for shine.”
“Thanks,” said Felicity.
“Oh, and get this.” The stylist lifted a wide-toothed comb. “Never use a brush.” Having lost the opportunity to regularly straighten Felicity’s hair, she pressed merchandise on her instead. As Felicity waited at the register for the stylist to ring up her purchases, the woman said, “When you get tired of it, come back here, you hear?”
Felicity would find another salon next time. She chose the sink and stuck her head into the flow from the tap. Tepid water ran through the strands of her hair, changing their shape into bends and squiggles. She coated them with the products, shaped them into ringlets, and waited hours for them to dry while she studied her scores. When she eventually looked in the mirror, her curls were back, vibrant and full, but more sculpted than they had been the last time she wore them out. She shook her head from side to side and watched them bounce up and then settle back down. She had forgotten how in its natural state, the twists and turns of her hair brought out its multiple shades, reddish brown with gold and tawny streaks catching the light. It was a miracle, this hair. It could do anything. It claimed space for itself; it announced itself. And it was hers.