White Teeth

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 Sheen^TM, 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’.’

The communication between hairdressers in P. K.’s being poor, no one told Andrea that Irie had washed her hair. Two minutes after having the thick white ammonia gloop spread on to her head, she felt the initial cold sensation change to a terrific fire. There was no dirt there to protect the scalp, and Irie started screaming.

‘I jus’ put it on! You want it straight, don’ you? Stop making that noise!’

‘But it hurts!’

‘Life hurts,’ said Andrea scornfully, ‘beauty hurts.’

Irie bit her tongue for another thirty seconds until blood appeared above her right ear. Then the poor girl blacked out.

She came to with her head over the sink, watching her hair, which was coming out in clumps, shimmy down the plughole.

‘You should have told me,’ Andrea was grumbling. ‘You should have told me that you washed it. It’s got to be dirty first. Now look.’

Now look. Hair that had once come down to her mid vertebrae was only a few inches from her head.

‘See what you’ve done,’ continued Andrea, as Irie wept openly. ‘I’d like to know what Mr Paul King is going to say about this. I better phone him and see if we can fix this up for you for free.’

Mr Paul King, the P. K. in question, owned the place. He was a big white guy, in his mid fifties, who had been an entrepreneur in the building trade until Black Wednesday and his wife’s credit card excesses took away everything but some bricks and mortar. Looking for a new idea, he read in the lifestyle section of his breakfast paper that black women spend five times as much as white women on beauty products and nine times as much on their hair. Taking his wife Sheila as an archetypal white woman, Paul King began to salivate. A little more research in his local library uncovered a multi-million pound industry. Paul King then bought a disused butcher’s on Willesden High Road, head-hunted Andrea from a Harlesden salon, and gave black hairdressing a shot. It was an instant success. He was amazed to discover that women on low income were indeed prepared to spend hundreds of pounds per month on their hair and yet more on nails and accessories. He was vaguely amused when Andrea first explained to him that physical pain was also part of the process. And the best part of it was there was no question of suing – they expected the burns. Perfect business.

‘Go on, Andrea, love, give her a freebie,’ said Paul King, shouting on a brick-shaped mobile over the construction noise of his new salon, opening in Wembley. ‘But don’t make a habit of it.’

Andrea returned to Irie with the good tidings. ‘ ’Sall right, darlin’. This one’s on us.’

‘But what – ’ Irie stared at her Hiroshima reflection. ‘What can you-’

‘Put your scarf back on, turn left out of here and go down the high road until you get to a shop called Roshi’s Haircare. Take this card and tell them P. K.’s sent you. Get eight packets of no. 5 type black hair with a red glow and come back here quick style.’

‘Hair?’ repeated Irie through snot and tears. ‘Fake hair?’

‘Stupid girl. It’s not fake. It’s real. And when it’s on your head it’ll be your real hair. Go!’

Blubbing like a baby, Irie shuffled out of P. K.’s and down the high road, trying to avoid her reflection in the shop windows. Reaching Roshi’s, she did her best to pull herself together, put her right hand over