I tell her about the eyelash and eyebrow clinic that Nappy No More is about to undertake, where we’ll be offering eyelash extensions and eyebrow-shaping and powders. We’ll also be providing eyelash dyeing for women who don’t want to keep using mascara, and eyelash perming for those who have straight lashes. It’ll be a forty-five minute procedure and the results will last for about six weeks or so. “I’m telling you, we are catering to the woman on the go who wants one-stop, customized salon care for her hair, face, body and feet.”
“I know that’s right,” she says as I snap the cape around her neck. “I’m impressed. Umm, speaking of stepping outside of the box, I want a whole new look; something real drastic, yet sassy for the spring.”
“What do you have in mind?” She tells me to do whatever I want. I smile, and decide to give her a retro bob cut. I see Big Booty still at the counter talking to Felecia, either catching up on—or dishing out—the latest gossip, then she speaks to a few clients sitting in the waiting area before she makes her way over to my workstation. Over all the chemicals floating through the air in here, I can practically smell her signature perfume—Juicy by Juicy Couture before she approaches me. This is the first time anyone has seen her since she got sliced in the face. She lifts her up her designer shades, tossing her shoulder-length weave to the side. “Miss Pasha, girl, can you fit me in today? I see you kinda busy up in here. How many heads you got?”
“Perfect” she says, running her hand along the nape of her neck. “I need to get this kitchen handled. These peas are poppin’ for real.”
I laugh, eyeing her white Louis bag and admiring her wears. “You better go, girl,” I say, waving a finger in the air. “You look good. And that bag is hot.”
Shuwanda comments on the bag as well. “Yeah, girl, that’s shit’s fiyah for sure!”
“Thanks,” she says, letting her bag rest in the crook of her arm. “It was a treat to me after that ho cut me.” Her weave piece covers the right side of her face. She pulls it back to show us her scar. “Yeah, the bitch got me good. But she got even better.”
“Did she get charged?” Shuwanda wants to know.
“That bitch sure did, and she got stomped, too. Shit, we all got charged. That ho was snappin’ over some damn dick, comin’ up to my door tryna bring da noise.” She rolls her eyes, sucking her teeth. “Bitch, puhleeze. And the nigga was still tryna come through for some’a this goodie-goodie, okay.”
“And I know you sent his ass on his merry way,” I say, eyeing her as I turn on the water. When it’s the right temp, I lean Janelle back in the sink and begin washing her hair.
She bucks her eyes. “The hell if I did. I dug into that nigga’s pockets for all of my pain ’n sufferin’ first. Then I pulled a nut outta him.”
Shuwanda chuckles. “Ooh, girl, you messy. But I love it!” It figures she would, since the two of them are cut from the same cloth.
“Messy, hell,” Big Booty replies. “If that nigga don’t respect his relationship, then why should I? The only fool in the room is that dumb-ass ho thinkin’ she got shit on lock.”
“I know that’s right,” Shuwanda agrees, encouraging Big Booty to stand here and keep the shit going. “I feel the same way. Cheatin’-ass niggas ain’t shit. So do you, boo. I saw what you posted on Facebook. Girl, it was hilarious. You called her out.”
“Sure did. Then had Marquelle post her beatdown on YouTube, okay? Fuck wit’ me if you want.”
I shake my head. Marquelle is her fifteen-year-old son who drinks and smokes around her—and from what I hear, with her. She stands here giving us all blow by blow details of how her and this girl fought. Come to find out the girl she and her kids beat down is only twenty-two. This bitch should be ashamed of herself. I keep my thoughts to myself.
An hour and a half later, Janelle gets out of the styling chair, looking like a new woman. “Girl,” she says, checking out her new do in the hand mirror. She smiles at her reflection. “I love it.” She glances down at her past— long, thick hair, then back up at the new her in the mirror. “This is exactly what I needed.”
I smile, sweeping her hair into a dustpan.
Janelle hands me a ten-dollar tip, then makes her way over to the register to pay Felecia. I call Big Booty over. She struts over, swinging her hips. I peep a few customers cutting their eyes at her never-ending ass. She sits in the chair.
“Miss Pasha, girl, I appreciate you squeezing me in. I’m going to see Ledisi in the city at B.B. King’s tomorrow night and I gotta be right.”
“Oh, I love her,” I say, snapping the cape around her neck. “I saw her last year in Atlanta, and she threw down. She gives a great show.”
“Girl, yes,” she agrees. She tells me this will be her second time seeing her. Tells me one of the young niggas she’s got pushing her back in got her tickets to see Maxwell and Jill Scott at Madison Square Garden in June.
“I’d love to see Jill in concert again. But I can do without Maxwell. He doesn’t do it for me.”
“Chile, please…Maxwell can get it.”
“’Scuse me, ma.”
I look up from Big Booty’s head. Standing in front of me is a thug-type nigga with dreads and big, round brown eyes. He looks to be in his early twenties. His facial features kind of remind me of a browner version of Hill Harper. Yes, he’s a cutie. “Yes, can I help you?”
“Yeah, my man said if I came through you’d hit me off with one of ya deep throat specials.”
I think I hear him correct, but need to make sure. He repeats himself and I feel myself getting lightheaded as I notice all eyes are on me, glued to the scene that is about to unfold before them. Seems like everything in the shop freezes. All I hear are gasps and the air being sucked in all around me. I can tell they are all standing and watching with baited breath to see how I react. This sonofabitch has come up in my fucking shop and called me out in front of everyone. I am about to pass out. I am through! Now I will have to bring it to him, and bring it hard! Or every bitch up in here will think this nigga is speaking truths.
“Say whaaaaat?!” I snap, flipping into bitch mode, slamming my hand up on my hip. Although I’m curious to know who the fuck his man is, asking would make me look suspect, like there might be some truth to what he’s dishing. I’m shaking inside; the last thing I’m about to do is validate shit he’s saying. “Mother-fucker, do I know you?”
“Nah, but you know my man,” this cocky-ass nigga says, smirking.
“Nigga, you got the wrong motherfucking one,” I snap, “coming up in my motherfucking shop with that disrespectful ass shit. What you better do is bounce before you get bounced.”
I can’t believe this nigga has me coming out of script like this. When I opened my salon, I made it my business to always talk and act and dress professional. To always carry myself with grace and class. But, right now, baaaaby, I feel the hood in me coming out. I am so goddamn pissed and embarrassed that I could take these scissors in my hand and stab him in his motherfucking eyeball.
“Yo, ma, I’m only tellin’ you what my man said. He said you sucked him off while he drove his whip down twenty-two in Hillside. Said you sucked him so good he forgot where he was driving to. I’m sayin’, can I get my dick sucked or what?”
I catch Shuwanda clutching her imaginary pearls, with her lips curled up in a wicked smile as if she’s enjoying the show. And knowing this bitch…she is! That in itself sets me off even more.
“Nigga, get the fuck up outta my shop before I have the cops up on ya ass. I don’t know who the fuck sent you here, but you go back and tell that nigga I said to kiss my black ass. I don’t play that shit …”
“Oh, hell naw,” Felecia says, storming up over to where we’re at with a can of mace in one hand and the aluminum bat she keeps behind the counter. “You fuckin’ tryna get ya head taken off, muhfucka! I will knock ya shit straight out the park real quick, nigga.”
The nigga doesn’t blink. He glances at her over his shoulder and calmly says, “Yo, ma, no disrespect to you, but you need to stay in ya lane. I ain’t talkin’ to you, boo. I’m talkin’ to ya peeps.” Then he turns his attention back
