by Ishmael Beah
The very thought pulled her from the water, and soon she was back on the sand and putting on her half-dry underwear. She decided to put on the blue dress with yellow flowers that she had corrupted at the shops. She didn’t know what size it was, since she had just snatched it when she had the opportunity. She unfolded it, closing her eyes and holding it up to her face to feel its silky softness and inhale the freshness of the fabric, and slipped it on. It came to just below her knees, the way she had imagined, but the armholes were too loose; the dress didn’t fit as well as she had hoped. She walked up and down the sand, looking at the shadow of herself in the dress, which exaggerated the loose arms. Then she had an idea. She took off the dress and gathered the excess fabric around the armholes, tying it to form bows on top of each shoulder. She put the dress back on, and now the arms weren’t too loose while the neckline was low enough to show a hint of breast. She put on her necklace. Then she poured a bit of each of the lotions into her palm and rubbed them around her neck, wrists, and face. It was delightful to be pleased by the scent on her skin.
But something was missing: her shoes. Reluctantly, she put her feet into her old sneakers. Then she put the other dress back in the plastic bag, along with the soap and lotions, and returned it to its hiding place under the mangroves. She put her jeans and sweatshirt into her raffia bag and slung it on her shoulder and looked at her shadow on the sand, smiling a bit and swaying before she climbed slowly back up to rejoin the world.
* * *
—
About to reenter the road, Khoudi felt suddenly self-conscious. She rearranged her dress, but somehow she could not get it to drape to her satisfaction. Each time she pulled it to one side, she sensed something wrong on the other. Finally, she gave up and set forth, jumping into the road and retracing her steps toward the roundabout. She could not remember the last time she had worn a dress. It felt good, but she felt vulnerable too. Everything felt threatening—even the wind seemed to move her outfit unpredictably.
She took a back way so that she wouldn’t have to encounter so many people. Before long, she emerged into a street lined with old one-family colonial wooden homes wrapped with verandas, now lopsided like the history the colonizers had left behind. Most of these buildings were occupied by shops and services. Behind them towered the glass-and-concrete buildings of the government and financial district, with their bright lights.
She stopped across the street from a small building, where there was a salon. Women and girls from all parts of the city came here, she knew. Some of them arrived in big fancy cars, which would wait for them outside, the drivers and bodyguards standing next to them. Others arrived in taxis that looked like their tires would abandon them at any second, though somehow that second never came. Many times, she had watched those women and girls through the window, with halo-like caps over their heads, reading magazines and even drowsing. Oh, to be able to give in to such relaxation!
Today there were no cars outside, which meant that the place wasn’t yet crowded. Khoudi crossed the street, her apprehension giving way to excitement. She was so preoccupied with rehearsing what she would say when she entered the shop that she nearly stepped in front of a truck. The driver assaulted the air with his horn, but in her mind Khoudi was already at her destination and did not hear him.
Through the foggy glass window, Khoudi watched the hairdressers and their few customers for a while. Was there a perfect moment to interrupt this coordinated orchestra of hands and heads, and the occasional foot? Mustering her courage, she pushed the door, and it opened abruptly, not with the grace, familiarity, and confidence with which she had seen people open it, the way she had practiced in her mind. The door swung back, shutting out the noise of the street and locking her into a new world of uncertainties. Music, laughter, and the chattering of the women came at her. So did the condescending looks of the hairdressers and the customers, Khoudi thought. She lowered her head a bit, then lifted it again and walked to the desk. As she waited for someone to speak to her, she leaned against the counter, her fingers drumming the rhythm of the background music on its surface.
One of the hairdressers was fiddling with the remote control for the air-conditioning unit, which seemed not to be working properly. It sounded like it was on at full blast, but the place wasn’t cool. Exasperated, she set down the remote and approached Khoudi, glancing pointedly at the hand drumming on the counter as if to say, “That is not womanly behavior.”
“So, what will it be, miss?” She took Khoudiemata’s hand and pulled her until she was standing upright. “That’s better.” Her eyes spoke again. She took the other hand as well, preventing Khoudi from leaning on the counter again, or departing.
“My name is Kadiatou, and this is my shop,” the woman said. “You have money, you are a customer. That is my only rule,” she added firmly, deliberately widening her gaze to indicate to Khoudi that she should ignore the other women’s condescension. “So, what will it be, miss?” she asked again.
“A deep wash, conditioning, oil, and some big braids, with my own hair, no extensions,” Khoudiemata said in one breath, just as she had rehearsed it for so many months.
“Something simple, then? You are sure?” Kadiatou confirmed, once again speaking also with her eyes, which went about the place to show that most of the customers asked to do a little more with their hair.
Khoudiemata shook her head no, not so much because she was sure but because she needed to reclaim at least the appearance of self-command.
“No, just simple, and just my hair.” She spoke loudly to make sure the other women heard, betraying no reaction to the looks they cast her way.
“I like your style,” Kadiatou said, and Khoudi was uncertain whether she was referring to her choice of hairstyle or her way of standing up for herself. Either possibility was to her liking. She let Kadiatou lead her to a chair and had a seat.
“You have to sit properly so that I can do my work properly.” Kadiatou spoke for Khoudiemata’s ears alone. When Khoudi looked confused, Kadiatou indicated her posture with her eyes. Khoudi looked around at the other women and noticed that in comparison, she was slouched, with her legs slightly apart and her right arm looped over the back of the chair. This was how she always sat. But now she sat up, straightening her spine, bringing her knees together, and folding her hands in her lap.
“You can return to yourself when I am done treating your hair.” Kadiatou noticed how tense Khoudi had become assuming this alien posture. Khoudi watched in the mirror as Kadiatou took a closer look at her hair. First, she parted it with her finger, and then she tried combing it. But Khoudi’s hair was so tangled that soon she was on the verge of weeping, her scalp was so sore.
“I’m sorry,” said Kadiatou, “but this is going to take much longer than usual. I am going to have to charge you more.”
“The prices listed in the window didn’t say it costs more if your hair is this or that way.” Khoudiemata lifted her head so that her eyes met Kadiatou’s in the mirror. “And it’s not as if you have so many customers waiting,” she went on boldly, indicating the few other bodies in the shop. She sat upright, declaring that she was ready to either get her hair done or leave.
“My, you have gotten sassy all of a sudden!” said Kadiatou. “But you are correct—I should change the sign. But let me see if you have the money to start with.” She opened her palms.
“You haven’t done anything yet, but you want the money already. Well, I have it, and that is that. If you don’t want to do my hair, just tell me.” She hoped her boldness didn’t backfire—there really wasn’t anywhere else she wanted to go. There were girls on the street who could braid your hair, but they only did things that Khoudi herself could do, if she wanted.
Kadiatou walked away, and for a moment Khoudi worried that she was gone for good. But then Khoudi saw her beckoning from the back of the shop, where there was a sink with a chair next to it.
Khoudiemata lowered herself into the chair, careful to keep her posture ladylike.
Kadiatou applied shampoo and worked up a lather. “When was the last time you did anything to your hair?”
“I honestly can’t remember,” Khoudi said, then added, “The price in the window is all I have.” Abruptly Kadiatou stopped working on her hair, and again Khoudi panicked. “I’ll pay the rest in work!”
“I’m just letting the conditioner soak in.” Kadiatou smiled. “Usually I get people begging for something for free. You made a good point about the listed price.” She began combing through a section of Khoudi’s hair, and Khoudi was pleased to feel that it wasn’t as difficult to get through it now. She didn’t like owing people, but she was starting to enjoy the massage on her scalp and the smell of the oil and whatever else Kadiatou was rubbing on her head. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the sensations, which had the deep comfort of rituals remembered from childhood.
It took Kadiatou quite some time to wash and rewash Khoudiemata’s hair, and then to rub in this and that, working and working until the comb no longer struggled to pass through, and her hair could be braided the way she had asked. By the time she was finished, she had to nudge Khoudi out of a half-sleep to give her a mirror.
Khoudiemata hardly recognized the hair on her head, or her face for that matter, to which the new style restored its proper youthfulness, bringing out the supple and untainted beauty that had been hidden. She could not stop returning to the mirror, surprised each time to see herself so pretty. She could not stop smiling either, and she gave up that battle, at least as long as she was inside the salon.
“Now, I want to have my fingers and toes done.”
“Good. You are learning to ask like a customer. Don’t ever beg if you are the one paying, or you won’t be taken seriously. But I thought you said you had only enough to do your hair.”
“Since you are agreeing to take me on for labor, I thought why not go for all I really want,” Khoudi said playfully, hopefully.
They agreed on a week of work, and Kadiatou brought over the implements. But as soon as she took one of Khoudi’s feet in her hands, Khoudi flinched. She was not used to having someone else touch her.
“Just relax and try to enjoy it,” Kadiatou said. “No harm is getting done here, young woman.” She returned her attention to Khoudi’s feet. “So you just want the nails trimmed and cleaned, yes, with clear polish only on the hands? Most people get it done that way.” She did not look at Khoudi, and Khoudi did not have the courage to disagree. As Kadiatou worked on in silence, with daydreams of her own, Khoudi’s mind drifted to how she would work to pay for the treatment. She hoped that Kadiatou would hold to the week she had agreed upon. She was used to people starting with a pretense of generosity, then exacting some sort of servitude. After all, the little family needed her to search the day for food. Nothing should compromise that.
“Don’t exhaust yourself with thinking about every outcome,” said Kadiatou, seeming to read her mind. “Learn to accept some beautiful surprises in life.”
When she had finished Khoudi’s hands as well as her feet, she went to put the tools away, stopping to still Khoudi’s left hand, which was just about to touch the nails of her right. “No! Wait until they are dry. I have to watch you to make sure you don’t ruin my beautiful work. Good thing I didn’t put colored polish on them!” Kadiatou pointed to a bench with a leather top and gestured for Khoudi to sit there.
Khoudi sat and picked up one of the many magazines on the table, flipping it open carefully to avoid damaging her nails, then threw it back down. It was filled with ads for bleaching one’s skin. She picked out another, and it was the same. In town, she had noticed that more and more people, men as well as women, and sometimes even children, were bleaching. You could tell by the sickly light pink hue it gave their skin.
Just then, a group of young women about her age noisily flocked in, laughing. She noticed the ease with which they opened the door and entered, as if the place belonged to them. They were moving through a familiar routine. She watched them, intent on learning their mannerisms. They snapped their fingers to get the attention of the hairdressers, and they sat where they wanted, not waiting to be told. And they noticed her—not just as they would any girl, but with their eyes lingering on her, studying the mixed languages of her energy. Under their gaze, Khoudi sat upright again, and brought her legs together and her hands to her lap.
“I want what you did for her with some extensions.” The most talkative girl pointed at Khoudi.
“I’m sorry, Mahawa, but we are closing at noon today, for Independence Day,” said Kadiatou. “Can you come back tomorrow?” But the young woman was insistent on a quick style for herself and two of her friends, and so Kadiatou and several other hairdressers agreed to pitch in. The three girls took their chairs and their friends hovered nearby, chattering, as the hairdressers descended.
“Can someone put the television on?” Kadiatou called. “Where is that remote?” One of the workers found it in a drawer and turned on the television mounted on the wall. As usual, a Spanish-language soap opera came on, without subtitles. People religiously watched these, Khoudi knew, even though they didn’t speak a word of Spanish, memorizing the names of the characters and guessing the plot lines from the action. The hairdressers had their eyes on the screen more than on the girls’ hair; their hands went through their tasks by memory.
Meanwhile, the girls continued their conversation as though no one else was in the room, and the women attending to them were mere statues. Khoudi knew what that felt like—it was an experience she had every day of her life. She looked up at the television, which had cut to an ad. A dark-skinned woman was walking down the street, and no one was looking at her. She stopped at the store to buy a “body nourishing cream,” as the ad referred to it. She went home and rubbed it on her skin vigorously, with an air of hopeful expectation. The next frame showed her, with lightened skin, walking down the street again. This time, everyone paid attention to her. The ad closed on a message: Be noticed. Be bright. Be beautiful. Be alive.
Khoudi stood abruptly. Her nails were long dry, and there was no reason to stay. She went to retrieve her sneakers. From across the room, Kadiatou looked her up and down, her eyes taking in the ratty shoes. With her eyes, she indicated that Khoudi should wait. Then she broke away from the cluster of hairdressers and went behind the counter. She returned with a pair of simple but elegant sandals, and set them down next to Khoudi and indicated that she should put them on. “You don’t have to give these back. Someone left them here over a month ago, so clearly they don’t need them.”
It disconcerted Khoudi that Kadiatou seemed to read her mind so easily, although she appreciated not having to explain herself. A thought crossed her mind: Perhaps Kadiatou used to be like her. She put on the sandals. They were a little too big, but they would do.
The young women were busy admiring their finished hairstyles in the mirrors. “This is why I don’t go anywhere else,” said Mahawa, rotating her hair to admire the finished effect from every angle. Then, just as noisily and confidently as they had arrived, they made their way out of the shop, restoring its previous quiet. On their way out, Mahawa caught Khoudi’s eyes and smiled at her, but Khoudi didn’t smile back. As much as she longed to have friends as these girls did, she wanted it to happen without being forced. And she was determined not to show desperation to anyone for anything.
Khoudiemata found a plastic bag in her raffia bag and put her old shoes in it. She needed them for her real life, the one where she owed no one anything and did as she pleased. She gave Kadiatou what money she had, and they arranged that she would come to work off her debt at the shop the day after tomorrow, as the shop would be closed until then. The hairdressers were all preparing to go out themselves to celebrate.
“Come along with us, if you like,” said Kadiatou, but Khoudi declined. She knew that if she didn’t c
ome back, Kadiatou wouldn’t seek her out. She hadn’t even asked where she lived or what her name was.
Khoudi walked to a mirror to take one last look. With a shock, she recognized her mother’s face staring back at her, with sharp cheekbones and bright eyes. She couldn’t tear her eyes away.
Kadiatou roused Khoudi from her reverie. “You are going to look the same, for today at least, even if you stand there for hours. Let the mirror be, young lady.” She went to a drawer below the counter and pulled out a belt, which she fastened around Khoudi’s waist. “That is what was missing.” She regarded Khoudi’s image in the mirror with satisfaction. “It bothered me so much.” Then she pulled Khoudi outside, where the other hairdressers were waiting, and closed the door.
* * *
—
The center of town was usually filled with masses of hurrying bodies and discontented faces. But today, with the holiday, people were sparse, and what faces there were looked joyful and relaxed. Young people and old clustered at bars or along the streets or gathered under the eaves of commercial buildings, listening to reggae.
Khoudiemata followed Kadiatou and the others, watching the shadows of the women that strolled along and beside their bodies, then glancing at her own to get a sense of how her dress was now hanging. The best she could tell, it was better than before. She kept a little distance, so that it would be unclear to those who saw her whether she was with these boisterous women, who appeared not to feel the slightest bit vulnerable. But in her new attire and hairdo she felt conspicuous, and she was glad not to seem entirely alone.
