Silver Sparrow

Peyton Wal was long gone, Mayor Al en had said he was sorry, and black folks were moving in while white people were hightailing it to the suburbs.

Mama and Daddy had their pick of several houses, as the market was flooded. They drove the Lincoln slowly up and down Cascade Heights like they were browsing the kennels at the pound, looking for the perfect puppy. Daddy was leaning toward a new house because he didn’t want something that had been “ate off.” Mama didn’t care about new, she just wanted central air. Our house, 739 Lynhurst, a three-bedroom ranch in the middle of a busy block, near the bus stop, was reduced even further in price because the garage had been converted into a two-station beauty salon. A wooden sign staked in the yard read chaurisse’s pink fox.

Nine years married, with no high-school diploma and no baby to show for her efforts, my mama was not a lucky person. Blessings were rare enough that they caught her attention when they showed themselves, and she had good sense enough to snag a good thing before it could get away.

“Do you take walk-ins?”

The real answer to this question was “sometimes.” The Pink Fox was a smal operation. I served as shampoo girl. In a pinch I could give a wash-and-set and a few other nonchemical procedures while my mother kept her hands busy with the women who book their appointments as much as three weeks ahead of time.

It was early in November and we were slammed like it was New Year’s Eve. Between the Sigma Gamma Rho debutante bal , Clark Col ege homecoming, and the encore of The Wiz, we had customers stacked up to the ceiling. Although my dad would have a fit if he knew, I took the day off from school to help my mother with the crunch. It didn’t matter; I was a senior. The clock over the no. 2 chair said three forty-five. Mama was doing a blow-dry in the best chair. I was leaning over the shampoo bowl, giving relief to a pregnant girl who had scratched her head the night before, even though she had known she was getting a touch-up; the force of the water on the chemical burns made her screw her eyes shut.

“I’m almost done,” I said, looking up at the would-be walk-in, and who did I see but Dana, my silver Cinderel a.

“Hi,” I said. “I can’t believe you came to see me!”

My mama said, “No walk-ins today, baby.”

“But maybe you can come in tomorrow?” I said. “I’l be here.”

“It’s okay,” Dana said. “It’s not a big deal. I am thinking about cutting it al off. I guess I can just go to a barbershop.”

You would have thought that she had just promised to stick her head in the oven. Al conversation in the shop shut down. The pregnant girl in the sink raised up to get a look at Dana. The old lady in chair no. 1 frowned so hard it was like her face was folding. Only my mama kept it together.

“Now why would you want to do that, baby?”

Dana said, “I just want to cut it off. Long hair is a hassle. I’m tired of living like this.”

My mama looked hard at Dana. I think she was trying to figure out if Dana real y was thinking about cutting off al that gorgeous hair. Even caught up in a high ponytail, you could see that it was waterfal hair, wild, tumbling, slick, and beautiful. Lord knows it isn’t fair how nature parcels out the goodies.

My mother said, “How old are you?”

“Seventeen. Seventeen and a half. This is my half birthday.”

“You are too young to mutilate yourself. Come back in six months if you want to fol ow through with that foolishness.”

“Can I sit down?” Dana said. “I won’t stay long.”

“Chaurisse, when you get through rinsing her, put on a protein pack and then take this young lady upstairs and pour her a Coca-Cola.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Keep in mind that this was midway through the first term of my senior year of high school. People at my school were going places and couldn’t stop talking about it. My school, Northside High School, was a performing-arts magnet, like in the movie Fame. Back in ninth grade, when I was accepted, I thought I could flute and piccolo my way into something remarkable, as if that were possible, even for people with talent. Three and a half years in, no one had suggested that I apply to col ege to study music. My counselor encouraged me to apply to the women’s col eges, saying it would be good for my self- esteem. She had gone to Smith and said maybe they were trying to diversify. With her help, I put in applications for the Seven Sisters, plus Spelman Col ege. “The stepsister,” she said with a wicked grin.

My mother had her heart set on my attending Spelman, because it had been her dream to study there. Her home ec teacher al those years ago, the one who reminded teenagers to “remember your dignity,” was a Spelman lady, dazzling my mother with snapshots of black girls with hard-pressed hair wearing chrysanthemum corsages.

I pretended to be bored with the idea of a girls’ school, and a little bit above it al . “I don’t like to hang out with girls.” I also made a big deal out of sending in an application to FAMU in Tal ahassee. But the truth was that I was terrified and also thril ed at the idea of attending Spelman Col ege.

When I explained why I wasn’t interested in having friends, I complained that “girls are too messy,” but it was a lie. The messiness was what I craved. I wanted to tel someone everything I knew. I wanted to name names and tel the whole story.

When I met Dana that time at SupeRx, I didn’t know yet if she could be that girl, if she would understand my place in the world, because girls with looks and hair move in different circles than ones like me. Just having the thought, I could hear my guidance counselor in my ear talking about Smith and self-esteem, but I wasn’t crazy. I have eyes. I know what I know.

Dana was the same shaky-scared she’d been at the mal as I led her up the concrete staircase that connected the rest of our house to the Pink Fox. Mama and Uncle Raleigh constructed those stairs themselves, when I was about ten years old. They worked on Mondays for the whole summer, drinking tiny cans of beer and mixing cement in a wheelbarrow. Dana paused at the top of the steps. She pressed her hand to the base of her throat and then touched her own forehead, as if checking for fever.