And This Too Shall Pass

by E. Lynn Harris

  “I hope it will be over soon, so we can get back to our game plan. Okay, let me go. I got work to do.”

  “Thanks, Gina. I owe you one.”

  “Don’t worry. That’s what I’m here for. Now am I right or am I wrong?”

  “You know you’re right.”

  CHAPTER 18

  A DAY OF BEAUTY,

  A NIGHT OF BLISS

  It was Friday. The afternoon sunlight was soft, the air mild. It was the time of year when the sun confirmed the passing of summer, and the mornings and evenings were cool and comfortable, signs that fall was in full effect.

  Gina made an appointment at her regular beauty salon for a day of beauty for MamaCee. The Dearborn Street salon was one of the city’s most popular. Therapy pampered its clients beyond belief and operated an exclusive dress shop adjacent to the salon that sold and rented expensive evening gowns. The chatter of clients warmed the salon, as both men and women got manicures, pedicures and, of course, their do’s done. The dress shop was always busy on weekends, especially during prom time.

  Zurich was busy preparing to leave Saturday morning for an away game against Seattle, so Gina picked up MamaCee and took her to the salon. Once inside, Gina introduced her to Teresa, one of the co-owners, who welcomed Mrs. Cora Robinson as if she was her first and most important customer ever.

  “Now, MamaCee, you are in good hands. I’ll make sure someone will call my office when you’re all done,” Gina said.

  “Okay, baby. They got your number?”

  “Yes, MamaCee, it’s all taken care of,” Gina assured her.

  “Don’t worry, Gina, we’ll take good care of Mrs. Robinson,” Teresa said as she took MamaCee’s handbag and the small paper bag in which MamaCee had packed chicken salad and deviled eggs, just in case.

  “My oh my, I’m tellin’ you, ain’t this a beautiful place you got here? You own all this?” MamaCee asked as she surveyed the stylish waiting area with its matching gray-and-black oversized chairs and black leather sofa.

  “Yes, ma’am, I do,” Teresa said proudly. “Gina tells me you’re from down South. What part?”

  “Mississippi. A li’l place called Warm Springs. We ain’t got no place like this back home,” MamaCee said as she looked around. The salon was divided into black-lacquer-and-glass workstations for each stylist, with a separate area for manicures and pedicures. A bank of hair dryers and shampoo sinks, together with a dressing room, lined the far wall. “I’ve been doin’ my own hair most of my life.”

  “Well, we’re certainly glad you’re going to spend some time with us, Mrs. Robinson,” Teresa said.

  “Oh, baby, call me MamaCee or Miss Cora, whichever one suits you,” MamaCee said.

  “Okay, Miss Cora, let me introduce you to David, one of the co-owners and the young man who’s gonna take care of you.”

  “I’m in your hands,” MamaCee said as she caught a glimpse of two young women in the adjacent dress shop modeling black-beaded gowns and checking their fit in a three-way mirror. A few minutes later, a tall, brown-skinned young man with a comb in his hands and a big smile on his face approached and greeted MamaCee.

  “Miss Cora, I’m David. I’m going to be your stylist. What are we going to have done today?”

  “I don’t know. You the expert. What do you think we ought to do?” MamaCee said as she pulled off the flower print flop hat she was wearing. Her thickly braided hair was rolled up and held in place by several bobby pins. David took her hat and began to run his fingers through MamaCee’s hair, releasing several pins and letting her shoulder-length locks free.

  “Oh, you have a good grade of hair, Miss Cora. We can do some things with it. I think we should start with some coloring. Perk it up,” David said.

  “Uh-oh. I don’t know ’bout that. What was your name again, baby?”

  “David,” he said as he began to unbraid her hair.

  “Now, David, I like my natural color. You know this gray hair shows my age, which I’m proud of. I don’t know ’bout no coloring.”

  “I think maybe just a little black tint will do. We can try this new color called Silky Black. Now, Miss Cora, you’ve got to trust me. You’re such a beautiful lady. I’m just going to enhance that beauty. Will you trust me?”

  MamaCee looked in David’s eyes and was silent for a moment. Suddenly she broke out in a smile and said, “I can trust you. Come on, give Mama the works.”

  “Great,” David said. He called out to a young lady in the shampoo area to come over to meet MamaCee.

  “Miss Cora,” he said, “this is Pam; she’s our colorist. She’s going to get you a smock so we can get you started. We don’t want to mess up this pretty dress you’re wearing. Can we get you something to drink?”

  “Something to drink? What you got?” MamaCee asked as she thought about her lunch. She wasn’t hungry yet, but something for her dry mouth would be good.

  “Pam, why don’t you take Miss Cora in the back and let her change into a smock. Let her know what we have to drink and treat her right,” he said.

  “Fine, come with me, Miss Cora, is it?”

  “Yes, baby. But why don’t you call me MamaCee.”

  “Okay, MamaCee. Can I get you some wine, champagne, or maybe some fruit juice?”

  MamaCee put her fingers to her chin and said, “Let me think. It’s the middle of the day, so I don’t think I need any wine or that champ stuff. How ’bout a strawberry soda pop?”

  “Oh, I don’t think we have strawberry soda. We have fruit punch,” Pam said.

  “How ’bout orange juice. You got that?”

  “Yes, I think we do. Come on with me and let’s get changed. When you come out, I’ll have you a nice glass of juice.”

  “Fine, baby. You people sho are nice,” she said as she entered the private changing areas.

  It was Mia Miller’s first trip to Therapy, too, and she walked in with sunglasses and an attitude. For days rest and sleep had eluded Mia. When she did manage to sleep, she had nightmares. She still couldn’t recall the details of the night she was attacked. All she really remembered was a strong hand jerking her head back by her hair. Every time she woke up, Mia had nagging headaches, which she attributed to the wine she was drinking to help her sleep.

  Dressed down in jeans and an oversized man’s white oxford shirt, Mia checked in with the receptionist and then took a seat in the waiting area. After thumbing impatiently through a few magazines, she returned to the desk and asked just how long she was expected to wait. The receptionist told her the stylist would be with her in a few minutes. When she asked Mia if she could offer her something to drink, Mia’s eyes perked up. “Yes, what do you have?”

  “We have juice, wine, or champagne,” the receptionist offered.

  “I’ll take the wine, if it’s white and cold,” Mia said with a quick toss of her hair and a smile without warmth. The cold smile was not for the receptionist, but in anticipation of the wine.

  “No problem. I’ll get it for you right away.”

  After Mia had finished her wine, and before she could request another glass, a tall, slender young man came to the waiting area and introduced himself. “Miss Miller, I’m Mark Young. You have an appointment with me. I think you told my booker that you wanted to get a wash and cut.”

  “That’s right,” Mia said, twirling the empty wineglass in her left hand.

  “You have beautiful hair, are you sure you want it cut?” Mark said as he ran his hands through her thick hair.

  “Yes,” Mia said coldly.

  “If you just want a new look, I can show you some styles that would look good on you, without cutting so much of your hair,” Mark said.

  “I want my hair cut,” Mia said, emphasizing each word. She stood and placed one hand on her hip and asked, “Which part don’t you understand?” Mia was using her pre-hissy-fit voice.

  “Fine, Ms. Miller. If you want it cut, then that’s what we’ll do. Would you mind taking off your sunglasses?”

  “
Are we going to have problems here?” Mia asked as she slowly removed the glasses and rolled her eyes at Mark.

  “Oh no,” Mark said as he moved back with his hands clasped as if in prayer. “At Therapy the client is always right. Like I said, you want a short cut, then we will do it. Let me show you to the changing area.” Mia turned in the direction of his extended hand. Mark looked back at the receptionist, who mouthed bitch, and he smiled in agreement.

  “You’re the sportscaster, aren’t you?” Mark asked.

  Without looking back at him, Mia whispered, “Yes.” She’d been hoping no one would recognize her. But now that Mark had, Mia thought maybe she should try and be more pleasant. She was certain he would tell his other clients she was a bitch. She was feeling too vulnerable to deal with bad beauty shop gossip.

  Mia walked into the dressing room as MamaCee walked out. MamaCee smiled at Mia and said in a loud voice, “I’m ready. What do I do now?”

  “Come on over here, MamaCee,” Pam said as she wrapped a towel around MamaCee’s neck.

  “That sure was a pretty girl that just walked in there. Is she some kinda movie star? I heard y’all have them up here,” MamaCee said.

  “Naw, not really. She just thinks she is,” Pam whispered.

  “Oh, she one of them, huh. Sounds like the white lady I worked for, BethAnn Thorsen, the original Miss Nobody-knows-the-trouble-I-seen,” MamaCee laughed. “She always thought she shoulda been a movie star. Use to read all them movie magazines and them Cosmo Something magazines or other. I can’t recall the exact name, you know, baby, the kind where they be talkin’ ’bout what folks ought to keep in their ‘whisperin’ rooms,’ ” MamaCee said.

  Pam seated MamaCee at the shampoo bowl and tilted her head back against the cold sink as she applied color protector to MamaCee’s hair, then asked, “What’s a whisperin’ room?”

  “Ah, you know, baby. Yo folks probably had one; it’s usually the bedroom. You know where folks who married go to talk ’bout stuff they don’t want other folks to know. You know, like nosy kids, nosy in-laws. Me and my late husband, God rest his soul, had two whisperin’ rooms. One was the dining room, where we would sit and talk ’bout stuff over a nice strong cup of coffee. Stuff like the white folks we worked for, our kids. Stuff just ‘tween he and me. And our other whisperin’ room was our bedroom, you know, where we took care of our marital business,” MamaCee laughed. “But you look a little too young to know ’bout that kinda stuff.”

  Pam just smiled as she worked the protector into MamaCee’s hair. “Miss Cora, why don’t you just lay back and close your eyes and let the protector sit?” Pam said.

  “Okay, baby, Mama ain’t goin’ nowhere,” MamaCee replied.

  Pam allowed MamaCee’s hair to set for about ten minutes and then returned to shampoo and condition it. When she finished, Pam dabbed the water and traces of conditioner from MamaCee’s forehead with a towel. MamaCee looked over at Mark’s station, where he was cutting Mia’s hair.

  “Why he doin’ that?” MamaCee asked.

  “What?”

  “Cuttin’ that gal’s hair like that. She got beautiful hair,” MamaCee said. “Looks like she got a good grade of hair. If I had hair like that, Lord knows you couldn’t pay me enough money to let somebody cut it.”

  “I’m sure that’s what she wanted, MamaCee,” Pam said.

  “Well, I’ll be. I hope what’s his name don’t think he gonna cut off Mama’s hair, ’cause if he is, then I might as well have brought my good wig with me, so I can put it on when I leave here,” she said.

  “Don’t worry, you won’t need a wig when you leave here,” Pam chuckled.

  Pam turned MamaCee over to David, who did clip off a few of her split ends. He rolled her wet hair tightly and then took MamaCee over to a row of five dryers. Three were already in use, so David put MamaCee in the last dryer, near the wall and the magazine table.

  “Now how long you want me under here?” MamaCee asked.

  “Not that long. I’m not going to forget about you. Do you want something else to drink?”

  “Naw, I’ll be just fine. But maybe a li’l bit later I’ll have you fetch my handbag. I got some rock candy in there I might need to suck on,” MamaCee said. “Keep my throat from getting dry,” she said as she tapped her throat.

  “Okay, just let me know. You want a magazine?”

  “Naw, I’ll just talk to my neighbor,” MamaCee said as she looked at the empty seat next to her, but then spotted a lady in the next chair over who had smiled at her when she sat down.

  MamaCee was trying to adjust the dryer’s plastic helmet when Mark brought Mia over to the dryers and sat her next to MamaCee. MamaCee smiled again at Mia, who didn’t smile back. Mia got up from the chair, went over to the magazine table, picked up a copy of Essence, and returned to her chair. Minutes later Mark brought over the plastic cup of wine that Mia had left at his workstation.

  “I thought you might want this,” he said and did a fashion runway turn before Mia could thank him.

  She measured the drink to make sure she had enough to last her through dryer time. Just as she was getting ready to lower the dryer back on her head, MamaCee lifted hers and said, “Baby, why you cutting all that pretty hair of yours?”

  “Excuse me?” Mia said coldly. She had decided to extend her pleasantries only to Mark and not some old lady with a gold tooth who probably never ever even watched television sports. But MamaCee ignored the chill in Mia’s voice and the disdain in her eyes. She wanted to talk.

  “Oh, you couldn’t hear me, these dryer things are kinda loud, ain’t they? I said, why you want to cut all that pretty hair of yours? I saw you when you came in here with all that hair. I asked one of the peoples working here if you were some kinda movie star on count you were so pretty and when I saw that man cuttin’ your hair, I wanted to come over there and tell him to stop. Don’t cut all that pretty hair,” MamaCee said.

  Mia didn’t respond. She gave MamaCee a what-is-this-crazy-woman-talking-about look as she lowered the dryer and started reading her magazine. Maybe if she continued to ignore MamaCee, she would get the message that Mia was in no mood to talk.

  MamaCee shrugged her shoulders and lowered her dryer, too.

  But a few minutes later, the dryer started to bother MamaCee. She lifted it from her head and looked around the busy salon for David or Pam. When she didn’t see them, she pulled the dryer back down on her head and continued to look around the shop for her stylist. A minute later she balled up her fist and knocked on Mia’s dryer. This did not make Mia happy. She gave MamaCee an exasperated look and MamaCee’s voice, under the dryer, became unnaturally loud.

  “Did you see the child that was fixin’ my hair?” MamaCee asked Mia.

  “No,” Mia said.

  “Oh, good, you can talk,” MamaCee observed. “You ain’t said much since you been in here, baby. I was wonderin’ if maybe you were hard of hearing or something,” she said.

  Mia became silent again as she took one of the rollers out to see if her hair was dry. It was and she began to look around for Mark so he could take her away from this nosy old woman. Mia was about to get up from the chair to go find Mark when MamaCee launched into a story.

  “Well, one thang ’bout you cuttin’ your hair off is that you can be forgiven for that. You know, a young girl like you, well, your hair will grow back in no time. But an old lady like me, well, I ’spect it would take a li’l longer. That’s why I told them not to cut a lot off, ’cause my hair ain’t so forgiving,” MamaCee said.

  Mia moved forward in her chair and looked for Mark. The salon was so busy with activity that Mia assumed he was probably starting on another client. This is exactly what she hated about beauty shops on Friday evenings. You could be in there three or four hours while stylists juggled clients. Mia looked toward Mark’s station and saw another woman sitting in the chair messing with her hair but saw no sign of Mark.

  “That’s the one thang ’bout growing old, you can’t m
ake that many mistakes,” MamaCee continued, “ ’cause you don’t have much time left for forgiveness. But sometimes you can try to make up for mistakes, you know, by tryin’ to help out somebody else.” MamaCee paused and took a deep breath. It was strange, but thinking about Mia cutting her hair, and seeing other people getting their hair done, reminded her of when Zach and Zuri decided to shave their heads. At first, she didn’t like it. She thought it made them look too militant. But over the years, she had learned to love their shaved domes. MamaCee thought how she had prayed to see Zachary’s bald head, after Zurich shaved it for the last time. She felt tears forming in her eyes, so she did what she always did when sad memories showed up: MamaCee talked. “Take me, for instance, Lord knows I done made a million mistakes. Some of them hurt so bad that I just didn’t know if I could fix ’em. But you got to try, you got to forgive yourself,” MamaCee said as her voice started to change into a mournful tone. Mia noticed the change, how it had gone from annoying to sorrowful. She adjusted her body in the tight-fitting chair, and closed her magazine, using her index finger to keep her place, and started to listen. “You see, baby, that’s why I’m up here in Chicago, trying to right a wrong. I flew up here, my first plane ride, ’cause the good Lord and my legs told me my grandbaby needed me. The first time that happened I didn’t listen ’cause I was scared of flying in one of them big old planes, and the bus, you know the Greyhound, well, it would have taken too long. My grandbaby, Zach, he was living up in New York City all alone. You know, he had friends, but he didn’t have family up there when he got real sick, and he needed his family. He thought his family didn’t understand ’bout how he lived his life, but I would always tell Zach, ‘Baby, ain’t nuthin’ you can do to make your grandma shamed of you.’ But in the end his grandma did something that shamed herself,” MamaCee said as tears began to slowly roll down her face. “Sometimes it’s hard to accept the natural order of things, like life and death, but it’s even harder when they out of step, like a child going on before his parents and his grandparents.” MamaCee began making a sniffling sound as if she needed to blow her nose. Mia reached over and touched MamaCee’s hand. “I like to remember my baby Zach when he was bursting with life, twirling and flipping around the field behind my garden.”