Culture Clash (7 page)

“Hi, y’all,” I say, quickly following Netta’s directions and heading to the back of the shop to cleanse my head and hands before I start my work. As usual, Mama’s hard at work mixing products and tending to the heart and soul of Netta’s Never Nappy Beauty Shop, like only she can.

“Well, well, well. Isn’t it Miss Chatter-in-my-sleep,” Mama says, kissing me as I greet her in the spirit room/office while she’s working hard, as usual.

“Hi, Mama,” I say, walking into the bathroom across the hall. I know she’s about to grill me about last night, but we can’t get into the ins and outs of my dreamworld while clients are present, even if we’re in the back of the quaint building. I want to tell Mama so badly that I think I’ve maintained some of the gifts I received while sleepwalking last week, but this time they’re positive and manageable—mainly because I’m staying in one place while dreaming instead of walking all over the place.

“So, how was your day?” Mama asks, mixing the sweet-smelling cream in her mortar, carefully adding ingredients as she blends. It smells like coconut and an herb I can’t quite put my finger on. Whatever it is, the scent simultaneously lifts my spirits and calms me down.

“Let’s just say I’m glad it’s the weekend.” And I’ll be even happier when I get to my mom’s house tonight. I want to take a long bath and finish the next chapter in my novel before I go to sleep. Ms. Toni was right; I’m loving this book.

“And yours?” I ask, retrieving the blend of Florida Water and lavender oil wash that we use to cleanse ourselves before working on clients’ heads. I begin my wash, leaving the door open so I can hear Mama’s response. I’m glad Netta has a bathroom for her clients in the wash area and a private one back here for us.

“It’s going well,” she says, glancing in the direction of the main shop. I know the women in there are haters of Mama’s and they know better than to mess with her. I’m sure their energy must work Mama’s nerves, even if she could crush them with one look. It must be hard, having all the power you need to hurt your enemies yet being wise enough to control it. That’s one of many lessons that I’ve yet to master.

“Jayd, let’s go,” Netta yells. Mama smiles at me and passes me a clean towel from the shelf behind her to dry off from my quick cleansing.

“Thank you,” I say, taking the towel from her hands. The scent of her work is on the towel, surging up my nose and through my entire body, making me feel better than I have all week. Mama smiles at my reaction and returns her focus to the creation in front of her. I finish patting myself dry and step back into the spirit room to return the cleansing potion to its place before I get to work.

When I walk back into the main room, the clients seated at the dryers stare toward the back of the shop where Mama’s working and talk amongst themselves. At least they know better than to voice their gossip within our hearing, not that Mama cares one way or another. I can’t wait until they leave so I can talk to her and Netta without spying ears and eyes, which won’t be for a few more hours. But as long as we get some time together, I know I can get some clarity on my issues.

After the last client finally leaves, we get busy cleaning the shop and catching up on our days. I gather the wet towels and other laundry left behind from the busy day and put them in the laundry basket—I’ll wash them first thing in the morning. After collecting the last of the dirty laundry, I replace all of the old linens with fresh ones and listen while Mama and Netta talk. They chat about the clients and their lives, but mostly about the progress of their individual hair regimens.

Like two doctors prescribing medicinal cocktails, Mama and Netta tailor each client’s box with exactly what they need to maintain their healthy heads. It’s amazing what you can learn about someone from how they wear their hair and what they use on it. Mama makes a product for everything from insomnia to being broke. I placed the cream Mama made earlier into small containers to spread out among the various clients in need of a calm head. No wonder I responded so well to the scent: at that moment it was just what I needed.

Last night’s dream still has me a little shook up, not to mention the mental ass-whipping I gave Reid earlier this afternoon. The more time I’ve had to digest what went down today, the more certain I have become that I can never do that again, which means I have to learn how to control that part of my sight—just like I am doing with my dreams. What if someone had seen us? This time I would not have been able to feign innocence like I did when I choked up Reid’s girlfriend. Laura would happily testify on his behalf and the witch hunt would be on—again. And I doubt that I could escape another accusation that I hurt a student with my voodoo ways. I’m sure the zero-tolerance rule applies to me using my gifts to do harm, too.

“You know Ms. Simms’s husband is causing her all sorts of stress. Did you see those bald patches popping up all over her scalp? She’s going to need some of your quick-grow balm with honey, Lynn Mae. A lot of it,” Netta says, picking through the various containers of Mama’s creations on the counter across from the cabinets where the clients’ boxes and other storage items are housed. It takes up an entire wall and is organized to perfection. Netta’s a true professional about her shit.

“And some of the aloe vera cream we made last week. That’ll help those scratches on her head heal faster. She needs to stop letting that man and his gambling stress her out. He’s been that way since I went to that church, and ain’t changed in the thirty years since,” Mama says, passing her a small jar full of her suggestion. Netta takes it from her and places it into the plastic box.

“Well, you know that woman as well as I do. She thinks as long as he shows up at church on Sunday morning that there’s a chance her husband can be saved,” Netta says, sealing the box and moving on to the next. They have about ten more to go before they’re done with that project and on to the next. There’s always something to do around here.

“That’s the problem right there,” Mama says, shaking her hand up in the air. “These folks think it’s up to someone else to save a grown-ass person. The only way someone can truly be saved is to do the work themselves. That’s where the healing begins.” Netta nods her head vigorously in agreement while scanning the remaining inventory.

“And if you try to do it the other way around, you end up losing your hair and coming to us to help save you,” Netta says, making us all laugh. These are the most healing times we have together; just talking and cleaning. I could use a little therapeutic conversation of my own, but I’ll ease my dream and daily events into the conversation at the right time. Right now I’m enjoying the two elders in the room vibing with one another.

“That’s why she wants you to come speak at the church tomorrow. She and all of them other women up there want the chance to pick your brain about saving their marriages,” Netta says, causing Mama to roll her eyes.

“Mama, you’re going to church in the morning?” I ask, completely shocked at the thought of Mama sitting quietly through one of Daddy’s sermons. I thought I’d never see that happen in my lifetime.

“Hell no,” Mama says, equally shocked at me for even having the thought in my head. “Every year for Black History Month, colored folk month, African American month, or whatever the hell else they call the shortest month of the year, these fools at your granddaddy’s church ask me to come and do a talk about traditional African culture, like they don’t remember that we have a shared history of being the survivors of captivity in this country.” Mama sucks her teeth out of disgust at the thought of stepping foot in Daddy’s church.

“I hear you, Lynn Mae,” Netta says in agreement, without looking up from her work. Netta always has Mama’s back, no matter what the issue is.

“Some people are so ashamed of their African heritage that they’d rather pay someone to come and talk about our collective history than do the digging themselves. Some black people are simply uncomfortable with the idea of being African,” Mama says with a stressed look across her brow. She really needs to relax. A vacation would do Mama some good.

“Tell me about it,” I say, easing into my confession for the day. “This white boy at school who thinks he owns the place is mad at me because I initiated the first African Student Union on campus. He actually had the nerve to step to me today and warn me about what would happen if I didn’t back down from making the club official.” Mama and Netta stop their organizing and look up at me, smiling.

“Good for you, little Jayd. She’s sporting her crown high on her head, ain’t she, Lynn Mae?” Netta says, beaming from ear to ear. I knew they’d be proud of me if I eased my story in at an opportune moment.

“Good for you, Jayd,” Mama says, returning to her duties. “And don’t worry about that white boy. They’re always threatened by the presence of a strong black woman,” she says, and I know Mama knows all about that kind of drama. “I decided a long time ago that I’m not here to make anyone comfortable, especially not white men. As far as I’m concerned, this is their country and they tend to think that this is their world, too.”

“Amen to that,” Netta chimes in. The two of them together crack me up every time, except for when they’re mad at me. I just hope this evening is not one of those times after I tell them how I reacted to Reid’s racist threat, even if I am slightly proud of my newfound clout.

“Even some of the black folks at the school are hating,” I say, grabbing the broom and dustpan from the corner in preparation for my next chore. “And the majority of the ones that are participating in the club don’t want to take the time to learn anything other than what they already think they know about being black. But luckily Mr. Adewale and Ms. Toni are our advisers, and I know they’ll make sure we receive the proper guidance.” I’m looking forward to spending some time with both of my favorite teachers outside of our regular classes.

“Of course the black students are hating,” Netta says, now prepping fresh tools for tomorrow while Mama finishes the clients’ boxes. If Friday was this busy, tomorrow should be off the chain—and so will the money we earn.

“Jayd, you’ll soon learn that sometimes the very people who need light the most will be the ones who want it the least,” Mama says while I continue sweeping. There’s more hair on this floor than in a horse’s mane. Any other beauty shop would simply throw it away, leaving the clients’ heads vulnerable to all kinds of curses and other negative things. But Mama and Netta take special precautions to make sure that their clients’ hair is disposed of in the proper, spiritual way it deserves.

“I had a best friend once who thought I was too black for my own good. She was black too, but not in culture. I knew some white folks that were more black than that girl was,” Netta says, checking her station’s inventory one more time before shutting the lights off in that section. “I never could understand why some black folks get pissed when whites want to join the religion, sing our songs, eat our food—not that we let them in, but I can understand the desire. Being black is where it’s at for me.”

“But everyone doesn’t share that frame of mind,” Mama interjects, smiling at her best friend. “Different people’s relationship to the culture is personal, and you must respect their frame of reference, too. In this life, all roads are valid,” Mama says, closing all the boxes before returning them to their cabinets. “And I’ve ceased caring about what white folks think about my way of life. Why the hell should I bite my tongue to please them when they couldn’t care less about my feelings, or my ancestors’ for that matter?” Mama looks at me and knows something else is on my mind. Now is as good a time as any to lay it all out on the table.

“I feel the same way, Mama, and showed Reid exactly how I felt about him threatening me,” I say. Mama stands at full attention and puts her right hand on her hip, giving me a look that tells me to continue with the entire story. “Last night my dream was about me fighting off my enemies with our ancestors’ powers and yours too,” I say, continuing with my work while coming clean. Mama and Netta are silent, taking it all in. “And today I was able to use Maman’s powers on Reid. It was so cool,” I say, sounding like an excited schoolgirl who just learned a new double Dutch move. I wish life were that simple.

“You did what?” Mama asks. She and Netta are both now staring at me in disbelief, but I think they’re still a little proud of my spiritual development.

“Oshune be praised,” Netta says, dramatically raising her hands to her mouth as she salutes our mother orisha.

“Netta, not now,” Mama says, cutting her eyes at Netta, who immediately busies herself with shutting down the rest of the shop. It’s time for all of us to go. But from the way Mama’s green eyes are glowing, I don’t think she’s finished with me quite yet.

“Jayd, I’m glad that your dreams are becoming more powerful and that you’re excited about this recent development, but you can’t use your gift of sight like that, especially not at school, girl.” I knew Mama would feel this way. I should’ve kept it to myself for a little while longer, at least until after we got the African Student Union officially recognized as a legitimate club by South Bay High’s administration.

“But what if I get attacked again? Reid really feels threatened by me and so does Laura.” I also just like having the power on hand to cripple their conceited asses when they get carried away, but I’ll leave that part out.

“And rightfully so. That girl tried to steal your crown and you got it back, just like any other Williams woman would do,” Netta says, glancing sideways at Mama while collecting the trash bags to dump once we’re outside. Her husband should be here any minute to pick her and Mama up.

“Netta, stop encouraging her,” Mama says, snapping at her homegirl, but with nothing but love in her voice. “The girl’s got too much power and you know it.” Mama walks over to the sink and washes her hands. Her salt-and-pepper hair gently bounces off her shoulders as her shapely frame seemingly glides across the hardwood floor. Mama looks like she could be my mom’s older sister more than the mother of eight grown kids.