So, So Hood

by L. Divine

  My friends have already arrived and ordered for the whole group. My last client took longer than expected because the fool came in without taking out his braids I put in five weeks ago. His hair was nearly in dreadlocks it was so matted. It took me two hours to take his rows out and wash that shit thoroughly. Of course I charged him an extra forty, which he had no problem paying, but if he ever does something like that again he’s on his own.

  “Where’s the birthday girl?” I ask, walking through the opened glass doors straight to our table. I know my former coworkers aren’t here on a Saturday night and the new people behind the counter are unfamiliar to me.

  “Auntie Jayd,” Rahima says, running up to me. I pick her up in my arms, kissing her soft, ketchup-smudged face. She smells like baby powder and Egyptian Musk—her daddy’s favorite oil. I’ve taken to wearing the sweet scent on occasion myself.

  “I see you finally made it,” Rah says, kissing me on the cheek.

  “Work is work,” I say, letting Rahima down so she can finish her turkey burger meal. I greet the rest of the crew and join them at the table where my veggie chili dog awaits. I’m so hungry I’d eat almost anything they put in front of me.

  “Jayd, hold Nickey for me for a minute please,” Mickey says, passing me the chubby four-month-old before I can dig in to my meal. “I need to find her cold medicine.”

  While Mickey frantically searches through the overstuffed diaper bag, I balance my youngest godchild in my right arm while manning my food with my left hand. I’m the queen of multitasking when it comes to eating. Mickey needs to clean that thing out. It’s got all kinds of junk in it that has nothing to do with the baby.

  Finally locating the local drugstore’s generic medicine Mickey realizes it’s empty. “Damn it. I knew I forgot to buy something at the store.”

  “Mickey, why don’t we try and find something natural for Nickey’s runny nose?” I pick up a napkin from the table and wipe Nickey’s nose clean but there’s more where that came from. “We are in a health food store.”

  “I’m not giving my baby none of that shit,” Mickey says, quickly forgetting that the reason she’s back to good health is because of the natural remedies I secured for her both from Mama and Dr. Whitmore. Speaking of which, I need to pay him a visit now that I’ve completed his most recent round of prescribed herbs. Maybe I can take Nickey again and get her checked out while I’m there.

  “Mickey, natural’s the best way to go. We want to treat the cause not just the symptom,” I say, again wiping my goddaughter’s nose clean with a wipe this time. “Isn’t that right, little mama?”

  Rahima looks at the baby in my arms and breaks down in tears. I had no idea she’d be this jealous. But I’m sure she knows it’s her special day and since her mama’s not here, I have to do my best to make her feel like the princess she most definitely is. Rah and Kamal try to console Rahima, but she’s not having it. Her daddy and uncle may be cool, but tonight she needs a mother’s love.

  “Come here, baby girl,” I say, reaching for Rahima who reluctantly comes. I put her on my lap next to Nickey and kiss her cheek, wiping away the tears with my right thumb. Poor baby. She’s been through so much in her short life and with her mama pregnant by the local drug supplier it’s only bound to get more eventful. I hope Rah can secure permanent sole custody of his daughter. Only then will some of the drama in Rahima’s world come to an end. I wish I could say the same for my problems.

  When I got home earlier one of the cheerleaders on the squad sent out a mass text about cheer squad resuming its normal practice schedule Monday and that I didn’t need to show up since I missed the last half of camp. I don’t need anything else to deal with, but I can’t let it slide. Mama told the administration of my unforeseen dilemma and all was good until now.

  “Everything all right, Jayd?” Rah asks. He’s always watching me whereas my girls are too busy talking about plans for their upcoming birthday bash to notice the worried look across my brow. Even Nigel hones in on my energy.

  “My week ended on a sour note, that’s all.”

  Rah and Nigel look at me, waiting for the rest of the story, but I really don’t want to talk about it while celebrating Rahima’s day. Kamal takes Rahima to get something to drink leaving me with only one baby to balance while I get my grub on. Mickey could take her daughter back, but I’m in no rush to give her up. Mickey and Nellie decide to go to the other side and look around the store while we continue eating.

  “Spit it out, Jayd. What’s wrong?” Nigel asks, dipping several fries into ketchup and stuffing his mouth. I know how he feels. The menu has the best healthy food I’ve ever tasted. I haven’t seen any of my regular former coworkers although I am surprised the manager bitch, Marty, isn’t here. Maybe Shakir and Summer finally got wise and fired her trifling ass. If it weren’t for her I’d probably still be working here. But it’s all for the best. Besides, I’m making way more cheddar working at Netta’s and for myself than I could ever make here, even if they do pay well.

  “Yeah, Jayd. You know we’re not going to let it go.” Rah smiles and touches my hand, reassuring me that I can let it all hang out.

  “Well, basically South Bay High would like to kick me out for not being a Redondo Beach resident and I gave them the ammunition to do it. Not to mention the fact that I’m also being forced off of the cheer squad for missing the last few weeks of camp due to my initiation. Like I said, a sour note.”

  “Damn, Jayd. I feel for you, shorty,” Nigel says, rubbing my shoulder. “I got you, girl. Whatever you need. If you want to stay on cheer I’ll talk to the coach. And as far as the residency thing goes, I’ll see if he has any pull with the administration office as well.”

  “That’s really sweet, but it’s my problem and I’ll figure it out. If my mom comes up to the school and resigns her original affidavit I should be okay with the residency thing. As far as cheer, I’m not even sure I want to stay on the squad.”

  “Girl, what?” Nigel asks, nearly spitting out his food. “You’re the livest chick on that whack-ass squad. If we don’t have you it’ll suck. That’s one thing I do miss about Westingle more than anything. We had the livest pep squad in the entire region.”

  Rah and Nigel both reminisce about the flyy black girls who can get their groove on and liven up the crowd.

  “Damn, this shit was expensive,” Mickey says, placing the paper bag on the table. “The food’s expensive, the medicine’s expensive. The owners must be balling off this place.”

  “Mickey, lower your voice,” I say, looking around the crowded restaurant at the other patrons looking at us, but my girl could care less about what these pretentious people in here think. We’re only a few miles from South Central, but the way these snobbish Negroes act in here you’d think we were in Beverly Hills.

  “We should’ve gone to Roscoe’s House of Chicken and Waffles. We could have fed the whole crew for half the price.” Nellie and Mickey rejoin the table with Nellie claiming a sleeping Nickey.

  “Roscoe’s,” I say, looking at the food in front of me suddenly uninterested. I haven’t been to our favorite hood spot in far too long.

  “A number nine with a buckwheat waffle and a Lisa’s Delight,” Rah says, calling out his customary order. I usually get the same thing. We each have our menu favorites.

  “A moment of silence for a number thirteen with grits and cheese eggs, please,” Nigel says, bowing his head and we all follow suit. “Next session, Pico and La Brea.”

  “Hell no,” Mickey chimes in. “Let’s do the Roscoe’s on Gower. There are always celebrities at that one.” Leave it to Mickey to make good eating about being seen.

  “Hell nah, girl. It’s too crowded in that tiny ass spot,” Nigel says. “If some shit jumps off in there we won’t be able to get out fast enough.”

  It’s so hood to think of exit strategies, but very necessary. I’ve been in enough fights that I know to walk into an establishment always looking for multiple ways out. It’s a neces
sary hazard of our environment.

  “Jayd. How are you, girl?” Shakir, the owner of Simply Wholesome asks, coming in through the front door and hugging me before greeting the rest of our crew.

  “I’m good, Shakir. You remember my crew,” I say, gesturing around the table.

  “Yeah, but it looks like it’s grown,” Shakir says, noticing Nickey sleeping peacefully in her stroller.

  “Yeah, that’s our baby,” Nigel says, like the proud daddy he is. He couldn’t love Nickey any more if she were his flesh and blood. But according to the State of California he might as well be. Nickey received her official birth certificate in the mail the other day and Nigel’s signature is on it just like Mickey’s. There’s no going back now unless they take it up with the courts.

  “Bless you, baby,” Mickey says, wiping Nickey’s nose clean. Even her sneeze didn’t wake the sleeping baby. I wish I could sleep that hard.

  “We’ve got something to help with congestion,” Shakir says, gently touching Nickey’s booties. He’s raised three kids of his own and has a grandbaby on the way.

  “Yeah, I just spent my life savings buying it for her.” Mickey doesn’t hold her tongue for anyone, amusing Shakir. My mom says he hasn’t changed since high school. She helped get me the job here and if I ever needed to come back I’m sure Shakir would let me.

  “Well, had your friend here stayed with us you could’ve benefited from the employee discount,” Shakir says, trying to make me feel bad, but I know I did the right thing.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I say, smiling at my former boss. He’s as cool as they come.

  “I’m serious, Jayd. We miss you around here and could use the help. Two people just quit the weekend shift and you know they’re our busiest days.”

  “I’m not looking for a job, Shakir, but thanks anyway. Mickey and Nigel could use the extra cheddar.”

  My friends look at me in shock that I put their business out there, but there’s no shame in working for the man, especially if that man is Shakir. He’s a decent, conscious brotha, flexible with the work schedule when possible and he pays well. What more could they ask for in an employer?

  “Hey, man. I’ve been following your football career,” Shakir says to Nigel who’s still stuck on the job thing. I know it boggles his mind that he may actually have to get a job, but when he spit out his silver spoon the easy life went to the curb with it. “Looks like you’ll have your pick of Pac ten schools to choose from once you graduate.”

  “I hope so, sir,” Nigel says, obviously flattered. “But I’m seriously considering UCLA.”

  “Glad to hear. I’m a fellow Bruin myself. Come talk to me next week if you want the job.”

  “Thank you, sir. I just might do that.”

  I knew Nigel and Shakir would hit it off. If Nigel decides to apply for the job I know Shakir will be flexible with Nigel’s football schedule and probably even attend a game or two. Shakir’s a proud alumnus of UCLA. His office is full of blue and gold paraphernalia to prove it.

  “It’s time for the cake,” Kamal says, pointing at baby girl who looks like she could pass out next to Nickey. It is getting late and I have a long workday ahead. Usually Sundays are pretty mellow, but I have a lot of time to make up for.

  “Perfect timing. After this I have to get home and sleep,” I say, ready to dig into the round Dora the Explorer cake from Ralph’s.

  “Damn girl, you just got here.” Rah looks at me and shakes his head. “I know you have to get your hustle on, but remember to make time to chill, too.”

  “Yeah, and make time to do your boy’s head,” Nigel says, touching his thick crown. “I’ve been rocking the fro and it’s cool and all, but my hair fits better under my helmet after you braid it up.”

  Mickey rolls her eyes at our boy’s attention toward me, and Nellie’s too absorbed in checking out the brothas with nice cars walking in and out of the establishment. My friends are a trip and then some, but I wouldn’t trade them for anyone else.

  “Bet. Session, tomorrow afternoon and I’ll bring the snacks, and the comb.” I smile at my friends knowing they mean well even if they can be the biggest brats.

  “Roger that, shorty,” Rah says, smiling. He takes out a lighter for the three pink candles ready to serenade his little girl.

  Adding one more client to my full agenda is more work than I bargained for, but I know I can handle it. And with a chill session to follow it won’t feel much like work anyway. Getting through the day will be challenging enough, but well worth it once I stack my cash.

  When I arrived at Rah’s house Rah and Nigel were busy in the studio playing video games while my girls were busy reading the latest celebrity gossip on the Internet. After a couple of hours playing Mortal Kombat, Nigel finally settles down and lets me braid his hair while Rah heads to his old room to check on Rahima. I like fighting games just as much as the next person to help relieve stress, but not while I’m working. There’s no way I can work my healing magic and compete with fatalities at the same time.

  “Do your thang, girl.” Nigel says, leaning back in his chair with both of his arms folded across his chest and his eyes closed. There’s nothing like someone’s fingers massaging your scalp to set your mood right if she knows what she’s doing.

  I run my fingers through Nigel’s pillow-soft, thick hair, allowing my ashe to lead the way. Unless requested, I don’t predetermine the size or how many braids go into my clients’ styles. I just go with the flow of their energy, and Nigel’s is telling me medium braids straight back. He already washed and blow dried it earlier leaving me to strictly braid.

  Nigel shifts in his chair, submitting completely to the process. I guide the thin-toothed comb through Nigel’s full crown gliding it all the way down to the nape of his neck parting the first cornrow. I pull the strong strands tight purposefully weaving in my pattern. My signature braid style is a long, smooth cornrow with a neat part. The new vanilla coconut hair balm Mama and Netta whipped up yesterday will bring out the natural shine in the dullest of strands, not that Nigel has that problem. His hair is healthy and the balm only makes his jet-black tresses sparkle more while leaving my fingers smelling and feeling delicious. I feel like a carpenter carving an intricate pattern from his mind’s eye into the wood using his favorite tools. By the time I’m done braiding I usually want to say thank you to the client for allowing me to create my art. In reality it feels that good to complete my task.

  “I got next,” Rah says, interrupting the dual healing session without stirring a relaxed Nigel. I know I’m on my game if my boy didn’t budge.

  “Not a problem.” I can engage Rah without breaking my concentration, but would rather work in peace.

  Hair styling is a profession and it’s also one of Oshune’s favorite things. By working in her clients’ heads she’s also carving out their destinies right onto their scalps. So for me and other priestesses of Oshune, doing hair is a way of doing our spirit work as well as reaping the monetary benefits of our blessing.

  “You look like you’re enjoying yourself, Miss Jackson,” Rah says, recognizing the intense look in my eyes. I smile at my boy marveling at my craftsmanship. He’s both jealous that I’m working on another dude’s hair—even if it is his best friend—and happy to see me back at work. Rah was one of my first clients in junior high and since being back in my life this past year has remained a steady paying patron.

  The doorbell rings and Rah goes back in the living room to answer it. “Nigel, you’ve got company,” Rah says from the other room. I tap Nigel on the shoulder and he jumps to his feet hearing Rah call him again.

  “Mom,” Nigel says, stepping into the foyer. I walk in curious to witness the interaction between the ghetto snob and her estranged son. I can feel both the excitement of a five-year-old boy wanting to hug his mommy and the tension of a man wanting to hold back. I feel for my conflicted boy. Mrs. Esop looks equally confused about how to approach her alienated son.

  “I just wanted to drop off these pict
ures. I wasn’t sure of the reliability of the mail system on this side of town.” Like she lives that far away. It’s barely a ten-minute drive between the two hoods, but there is a significant difference in the home values from Windsor Hills to Lafayette Square, even if they’re both a stone’s throw from Crenshaw Boulevard.

  “Thanks,” Nigel says, taking the photos from his mom who stands nervously by the entryway.

  Carefully sliding the pictures out of the large, gold envelope, we both smile at the photos we took at our final debutante dress rehearsal. The actual night turned out to be a disaster—quite the opposite of the picture-perfect couple presented here. We do look damned good in our couture outfits. Too bad Mama and Netta had to rip the gown off of me during my spiritual meltdown at the beach, but it’s all good as far as I’m concerned even if I know Mrs. Esop sees the incident quite differently.

  “Well, I see you’ve gone back to your old ways of braiding hair,” Mrs. Esop says, turning her nose up at Rah’s simple home. I’m surprised her bougie ass even ventured to this side of town, even if Windsor Hills is a lovely predominantly black community. The homes and yards may be more modest than the ones in her Lafayette Square community, but a snob is a snob, and Mrs. Esop is the queen of them all.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, insulted. Hearing the conversation, Mickey and Nellie emerge from the back room and see Mrs. Esop who promptly rolls her false eyelashes at their presence.

  “It means that after all of the money, time, and energy I spent investing in your coming out into the young lady I know you’re capable of being you’ve still decided to remain in the same place you were before—nowhere.”

  “Now hold on just a minute, Mom,” Nigel begins, but I tap my friend lightly on the shoulder to indicate I’ve got this one. Our showdown has been coming for several weeks and I’m ready.