I rarely went into the master bedroom, but it, too, was small, cramped, and comforting. It was humid and smelled like a hot candy store. A large bed, covered with a shiny, quilted white-and-maroon paisley bedspread, with ruffles at the hem, took up most of the room. There was a full-length mirror attached to the back of the door and a low dresser drawer on which my aunties had everything laid out. There was a hot plate cranking. Upon its sizzling surface was some foreign object that resembled a garden tool, with a dark wooden handle like a hammer, with teeth. Though the metal part was blackened, traces of its original gold color could be seen underneath. This mysterious hammer-fork thing sat menacingly on the plate’s surface, getting hotter and hotter. As I crossed the threshold into the bedroom, I felt as though I had entered an alternate universe, a secret chamber—one of Black-girl beauty.
My aunts motioned for me to sit on the side of the bed. I didn’t know what kind of ritual was ahead, but I sure was excited. As I settled in on the edge of the bed, feet dangling off the side, I could feel many hands exploring the wild garden of knots, curls, and straight bits that made up my head of hair. My heart was racing. I felt like a long-lost princess sitting in her chambers, hoping this could be it—the moment of coronation, when my hair would finally get done and I would be transformed, presented to the world with newfound power and grace.
Finally, I thought, maybe my hair would fit in. Maybe it would fall into sleek and shiny ringlets, and I would look like my cute Black girl cousins and friends who gathered in Queens. Or maybe it would lie down flat and bone straight like the hair of the little white girls I grew up among on Long Island. Either way, I was just thrilled that my hair would at last be cared for by someone who knew what to do.
The action started at the back of my head, with some pulling and separating, and a little sharpness from knots coming undone. The next thing I felt was something I’ll never forget. First, there was a heavy tugging and burning sensation near my neck, followed immediately by an alarming searing and sizzling sound and an unfamiliar and vicious smell, like a dirty stuffed animal set on fire. Along with significant smoke, a faint panic began to waft through the room. I couldn’t make out much of what was being said, but I certainly heard, “Oh shit!” and “Stop, stop!” several times. And then it did stop. Abruptly. The excitement, the ritual, and the fixing all stopped. I stayed motionless and quiet, a small patch of hair at the nape of my neck still smoldering.
My aunties were apologetic. “Sorry, baby, the hot comb is too strong for your hair,” my aunties explained. Sorry, baby, and that was the end of it. There would be no rites of passage into Black-girl hair society that day. I didn’t emerge transformed into a presentable little girl for Harlem, Queens, or Long Island. I was still a wayward little misfit who wore a disobedient crown on her head—only now with a patch of rough, burned, uneven (and noticeably shorter) hair in the back. I was far from done.
On rare occasions, my mother, brother, and I would take a drive to Jones Beach as a family. (Proximity to the beach was one of the few perks of being stranded on Long Island.) One summer morning, the three of us kids, along with one of my brother’s buddies, piled into my mother’s clunker on wheels and hit the road to the beach. It was a clear, bright day; you could see the ocean in the sky. It was a perfect day for the beach. My mother, sporting a light-blue cotton summer caftan with thin green stripes, was driving. All the windows were rolled down, giving the car a faux convertible feeling; my mother’s bell sleeves flapped slightly in the breeze. She had on her signature big sunglasses, and her hair was customarily carefree. My brother sat next to her, shirtless, his big, fluffy Afro bouncing gently.
I sat in the backseat next to my brother’s friend, quietly looking out the open window, letting the warm, salty air wash over my face. I was trying to be nonchalant, not to let on I had an enormous crush on this teen-star-looking boy. His silky hair was strawberry blond, with perfect natural highlights, laid out in delicate, feathered layers and parted down the middle. Every dreamy strand rested in its perfect place. The car was quiet as we all enjoyed a rare moment of contentment.
Gradually, though, I became aware that my hair had started to move. But it was not from the wind. Instead, it was from what felt like fingers. There were fingers searching through the wild, tangled bush that was my hair. I didn’t dare move or speak. But the boy, he was gently plucking at my hair! Surgically, he worked on the smaller, tighter, matted bits at the ends with the big black plastic comb he kept permanently ensconced in his back pocket. He was using the very same comb that he ran through his field of perfect golden strands on my disheveled head! He pulled the comb from scalp to end in small sections. As each portion was released from the weight of its former twisted entrapment, it would float a
