Unbeweaveable (3 page)

Let Me Be Me

My sanctuary when I'm feeling stressed? The salon. I walked in and rattled off my appointment to Ty, the receptionist.

“You're here early, Mariah. Tameka's running behind. Is there something I can get for you while you wait?”

I looked at my watch.

“How long?”

“Maybe fifteen minutes?”

“Let her know if it's a minute longer I'm leaving.”

“Of course.”

I sat in a leopard-print chair in the waiting area and played on my Blackberry while I waited.

Fourteen minutes to the dot Tameka walked up.

“Ready?”

I looked at my watch. “One more minute and I would have left.”

“And go where? You can pull that attitude at work, but you better drop it here. Come on,” she said, waving me back to her station.

I smiled and followed her.

Tameka didn't put up with any of my mess, and as much as I pretended that it bothered me I loved how she let me be
me
. The salon was the only place that I could be myself—had to be since Tameka was the only person I trusted to see my real hair.

“You're just getting a shampoo and your weave tightened, right?”

“Yep.”

She draped me and I followed her to the shampoo bowl. I sat back and closed my eyes as she vigorously shampooed my hair, the tea tree shampoo tingling my scalp and invigorating my senses.

“Hard week at work?”

“Hard life,” I said.

“What's wrong?” Tameka asked, slathering my hair with shampoo again.

“You read the magazine, right?”

“
Spirit
? Sometimes.”

“What? I thought you said the salon had a subscription?”

“Had. No offense,
Spirit
can be a little over my head. Some of the topics aren't relatable to everybody. Why can't you guys have someone regular on the cover?”

“Abraham Williams is regular.”

“Who?”

I sighed. “Abraham Williams just won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction this year. He's amazing.”

“Why can't you guys cover Beyoncé or Vivica A. Fox or something? Why does it always have to be somebody so…”

“Inspirational?”

“I was going to say boring, but okay.” She tapped my shoulder and I lifted my head, heavy now with water, as she towel-dried my weave. She sprayed an antiseptic on my scalp to prevent it from itching and then I followed her to her station.

“Did I hurt your feelings?” she asked.

“No, but…” I trailed off. Is that how people saw
Spirit
? As boring? Was it?
I
loved it, but was that enough?
Spirit
was my life. What would I do without it?

“All right, ready for the dryer?”

I nodded and I followed her to the dryer and let her pull the hood down over my head, where I let the sound of the air drown out my worries.

* * *

“Are you sure you should be doing this?” Norma asked as she sat on an ivory silk-lined ottoman in the dressing room.

“Why not?” I asked, as I slipped the purple Diane Von Furstenberg dress over my head. I turned and looked at myself in the mirror. I looked great. The wrap dress accented my thin waist and long legs, and my dark chocolate skin glowed.

Norma grabbed the tag near my wrist. “This dress is over $3,000! Have you lost your mind?”

“Lower your voice,” I said. After getting my hair done, I met up with Norma and now we were in a dressing room at Saks.

“You told me the magazine was having trouble. Are you sure you should be out buying a whole new wardrobe?”

“First of all, it's just a dress.”

“A $3,000 dress,” she muttered.

“Anyway, it's been a week already and I still haven't heard anything. Matthew gave me the extra pages I needed and when people read the interview, they'll be uplifted and look forward to buying our next issue. Don't worry.”

“I'm not, but I'm wondering how
you're
not. How can you be so calm?”

I wasn't. I'd thrown up three times today, and my stomach and chest burned so much that I was drinking Maalox like it was water. But I pushed my fears down and kept working. That mentality had saved me before, it would save me again.

I saw her disapproving glance in the mirror and turned to face my friend. Her dark brown eyes glinted with worry and she kept twisting her wedding ring around her finger, a nervous habit she'd acquired since getting married.

“I don't like you doing this, Mariah.”

“Just relax, okay? I've got it covered.”

I knew she had a point to some degree. But Norma couldn't possibly understand how I was feeling. Norma was a wedding photographer. She had her
own
business. Her time was scheduled by her own hands and she could never comprehend the meaning of the word
boss
.

“Well, it is a nice color on you,” she said, her eyes scanning my dress.

“Thank you,” I said, turning back to the mirror and spinning around so the dress twirled around me. “Now stop worrying about me and help me find shoes that match.”

It's My Life

“What?”

“You heard me, Mariah. It's over. Last month was our last issue.”

I was standing in Matthew's office Monday morning. I hadn't even sat down yet before he told me the news.

I sat down, my throat burning. “With no warning? Matthew, you can't—”

“No warning? Mariah, where have you been for the last year? We've been in trouble for a long time—”

“In trouble, yes, but not enough to shut down this magazine! This simply isn't done—”

“It's done every day, Mariah.
Vanguard
did it,
Prestige
did it—”

“Those were urban magazines. It was bound to happen for them. They're readers are average—”

“And ours aren't?”

“No.
Spirit
is for the upscale reader—”

“Upscale or not, people aren't reading. Look, Jasmine knew
Spirit
was going down, but she refused to modernize and change the magazine. In the end she was forced to retire because of that. She got off easy.”

“Easy? Are you crazy? She loved this magazine!”

“But not enough to save it. I'm sorry, Mariah. It's over.”

“It can't be.”

“It is.”

“It's my life. This magazine is my life. What am I supposed to do now?” I slumped in my chair and I could hear Beverly telling me to sit up straight. Matthew droned on and on about how some of the staff would stay over the next month, but I couldn't hear, I couldn't think. I closed my eyes to block out the brightness of the room.

“Mariah? Mariah?”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“I don't know, but I would start by cleaning out your office. And remember your laptop is property of
Spirit
Magazine
—that stays.”

He stood, signaling that our meeting was at an abrupt finish. Matthew offered me his hand and I shook it—barely squeezing his fingers—and walked out of his office. It seemed that everyone at the magazine knew what was going on. Except me. I passed my colleagues in the pit and saw their eyes turn from envy to pity. I kept my head up until I got to my office, and then sank into my chair.

 

The hair is the richest ornament of women.

—
Martin Luther

There's Hope

Later that evening, I sat on the floor of my apartment with a bottle of white wine and India.Arie playing from the stereo nearby. I couldn't bear calling Norma and hearing her voice singsong ‘I told you so.' The severance check I got wouldn't even cover one month's rent, and even though I had enough savings to cover me for a couple of months, I was worried.

What am I going to do?
I wrote over and over in my journal, filling up two pages with the question.

Spirit
was the first job I'd had, the
only
job I ever had. Jasmine's words danced in my head—
in the end, it's just a job.

Let's see, I have no man, no kids, but it was all for something. It wasn't just for a job, it was for a career. Careers are
not
jobs. Yes, I got paid for it, which was the definition of a job, but careers left you feeling fulfilled. Isn't that what
Spirit
had done for me? Left me feeling fulfilled? I didn't know. The hardwood floors made my butt ache, but I wouldn't get up. Couldn't get up. I sat on the floor, still wearing my dress from work, and tried to trust in India.Arie's words.

India is right. There is hope. I'm talented, right?
I wrote, taking a sip of wine straight from the bottle, not caring what it would do to my stomach later.

Yes, I'm a talented, smart woman. I will find a new job. I won't let this economy beat me down. No way. I'll write a great résumé, hit the ground running and find a new job. No, a new career. But right now, I better hit that unemployment line.

* * *

Name,
the form asked as I scribbled my name down on the form.
I
don't
belong
here
, I thought as I looked around the room. Vacant, stunned eyes glanced back at me. I kept my head down, trying not to look at anyone else in the room, trying to pretend that I didn't need any help, that I really didn't belong here.

“Mariah? Mariah, is that you?” a voice said behind me.
This is the last place I wanted to get recognized…

I turned around and looked at Catherine Phillips. We both had interned at
Spirit
years ago. While I stayed, she went off to write brilliant editorials for the
New York Times
. Even in my five-inch boots, Catherine held my gaze—she was as tall as she was wide, with dingy blonde hair and grey, sallow skin.

“I knew that was you! Looks like the economy got us both,” she said, reaching in for a hug.

“Um, economy?”

“You lost your job, too, right?”

“My job? No, of course not! I'm in here for a friend.”

Catherine raised her eyebrow. “A friend, huh? Your
friend
must have hit on hard times. So where are
you
working now?”

“Um,
Spirit
.”

“
Spirit
? Where we interned together? Working there was worse than watching paint dry. How could you stick in there for so long?”

“Actually, it was—is a wonderful place to work. I love it.”

Catherine caught my slip and stood closer to me. “Still in here for a friend?” She laughed, a thin raspy whine, and starting digging in her purse. She pulled out a stick of gum and folded it into her mouth.

“Yeah, times are getting hard,” she smacked. “I thought there was no way that they could get rid of me. Felt like I was that Beyoncé song, um…” She snapped her fingers to jog her memory.

“ ‘Irreplaceable'?”

“Yeah! ‘Irreplaceable'.” She shrugged. “People just aren't reading anymore. Not on paper, anyway. Everything is on a computer screen.”

“How long have you been out of work?”

“This here is my second round of unemployment. I got a job a couple of months after getting laid off, and then turned right around and got laid off again.”

“But you're college educated. You'll write somewhere else.”

She laughed again. “Nobody's hiring now. And especially not newspapers. Magazines either, for that matter.”

“But your husband is managing everything, right? You're still making out okay?”

“Oh, I'm making it. I was going to leave him before all this happened. Now I can't afford to get divorced.”

“I'm sorry.”

She shrugged again. “Such is life.” She looked at me then, as if finally seeing me, and said, “I remember dressing like that. Amazing when bills start to stack up what'll you'll sacrifice.” Her hands ran through her thin, lifeless strands.

I looked down at my Coach boots and True Religion jeans.
I thought I'd dressed down…

I crumpled the form in my hand and said my goodbye to Catherine. I walked outside into the sharp, cold air and threw my form away into a trash can on the sidewalk. My hands were shaking, not from the cold, but from the fear of what Catherine said, the fear of having to sacrifice too much.

* * *

I grew up in Texas—Houston, to be more exact—a thousand miles from the island of Manhattan. I was raised near Rice University, in a neighborhood where the houses sat back on small hills that faced the tree-lined street. I can't remember a day when my mother, Beverly King, worked. Coming home from school she was always there, sitting in the sunroom with her embroidery hoop, the sun glinting down on her hair and skin, making her glow.

“How was school?” she would ask, without even lifting her head from her hoop.

“Good.”

“Well, start your homework. Henrietta will give you a snack before dinner.”

I nodded and would run off to my room, eager to get my homework done so I could watch TV.

My sister Renee would always arrive before me. She would be sitting in the living room watching TV, eating her snack of grapes with sliced cheese.

“You always beat me.”

“I come straight home,” she would say, smacking on a grape.

“Did you do your homework?”

“Nope.”

“Then you shouldn't be watching TV,” I said, flicking it off with the remote.

“Hey! I was watching that!”

“You know the rule, homework first,” I said.

“Mama said it was okay.”

“Yeah, right,” I said heading into my room to start my homework.

A few minutes later Beverly was in my room, hands on her hip.

“What is this I hear about you turning the TV off?”

“She didn't do her homework, she ain't—”

“Ain't?”

“Sorry. We're not supposed to watch TV first.”

“
You're
not supposed to watch TV first. Renee will do her homework later.”

“That's not fair!”

“Life isn't fair. The sooner you realize that the better. Homework now. Don't you want to go to college one day?”

“Yeah, but—”

“No buts. Start on your homework.”

“Isn't Renee going to college, too?”

Her eyes turned to slits. “Don't worry about Renee. Just worry about yourself. Independent woman, remember?”

I nodded.

Independent, self-sufficient woman. That's how she raised me. In some ways I'm glad. All the years of putting homework first made high school easier, and taking tests and writing essays were a breeze for me. Renee struggled in school and the things I found easy were hard-earned for her. While I came home with A's in English and got pats on the head from my stepfather, Anthony, Renee would get a party for landing C's in home economics. My belly would burn when I would see the new cashmere sweaters she would get just for baking a cake, while basic math equations left her floundering.
College
, I would chant as I kept my nose in the books.

The one thing my sister Renee was good at, the thing I envied most, was how she attracted men. It was the thing Beverly groomed her for, always reminding her of her appearance, making sure she cooked well and knew how to run a house full of servants. Because of course every woman had servants to manage, right? It seemed my mother's efforts paid off when Renee married Peter Chamberlain three years ago. Her happiness was short-lived when he died last summer.

“I want to be a wife, too,” I used to say to Beverly.

She always laughed when I said that, as if me wanting to be a wife was as ludicrous as going to the moon.

She would pat my head, her hand fluffing my cotton ball-like hair.

“College is best for you. Your hair and skin tone…”

“What?”

“Well, let's just say that you are very, very smart. Stick to the books, not to the men.”

So that's what I did. A week after high school graduation I hightailed it out of Houston and went to New York with my best friend Norma.

* * *

“You what?” Norma shrieked into the phone five minutes later.

“Laid off. I know.”

“What are you going to do for money? Please don't tell me you don't have any savings left.”

I bit my lip and fought back tears.
Suck it down, suck it down. You will not cry…

She sighed. “I take that as a no.”

“No, no. I have a little money. But it's not going to last forever. What am I going to do?”

“I told you not to buy that dress—”

“Right now is not the time to tell me that. Just be my friend, Norma.”

“You're right. I'm sorry. Well, you still have options.”

“Okay, name them.”

“Well, since you got laid off you're eligible for unemployment. Have you filed already?”

“Yes.” After taking a walk, and getting a cup of hot cocoa, I willed myself back to that unemployment office and did all the necessary paperwork. Thankfully, Catherine was gone.

“Okay, well, that's a start—”

“That's the end, Norma. Unemployment doesn't even pay half of what I used to make. I can't live on that.”

“You could call your mother—”

“No.”

“Your sister?”

“No! No family phone calls.”

“All right. Well, if it was me I would cut back on my expenses and just live on the bare necessities. No shopping, no restaurants, no hair appointments—”

“Gotta stop you right there. No hair appointments? I can't do that.” I felt traumatized by just the thought of removing my weave. I picked up one of my jet-black strands and twirled it around my pinky.

“Look, you don't have a job, remember? You're going to have to do a lot of things you don't like.”

“I'm
not
giving up my hair,” I said, twirling furiously.

“Fine,” she said. “Just start looking for another job and cut back on your expenses. You'll be okay. You could come work for me—”

“And do what? Stand around and hold the light for you? No thanks.”

“You'd have a job.”

“I don't want a job. I want a career!”

“Fine. But you know beggars can't be choosy. Sooner or later you're going to have to do something that pays the bills.”

“Yeah, maybe. But that's a last resort. I want to find something that fulfills me—”

“You could work at the restaurant with Chris.”

“No! Don't you get it? I don't want to be some waitress or your assistant. Making food and taking pictures are not especially life-changing, you know.”

“Oh, and telling people what book to read is?”

“Yes! I help change the way people think and how they look at the world—”

“By reading some trashy novel?”

“
Spirit
doesn't cover trashy books! We cover literary novels, and—”

“In case you haven't noticed, no one reads literary novels but stuck-up literatis!”

“That's not true! I read literary novels.”

“Exactly.”

“You know what, thanks for offering me the job, but I'm college educated—”

“So am I! We went to the same school, brainiac. Taking pictures and making food is an
art
. Not something that everyone can do. And Chris and I happen to own our own businesses, another thing that takes talent, hard work and discipline. Remember that before you start turning up your nose at everything. I was just trying to give you options, remember?”

“I know you both work hard—”

“We do.”

“Sorry. I'm just frustrated, all right? Didn't mean to offend you.”

“Fine.” She blew out a breath. “So I guess you're going to try working at other magazines?”

“Yeah. I'm going to touch up my résumé and get ready to get back out there.”

“That's positive thinking.”

“And at least I have a great dress for interviews.”

“See? You're thinking better already.”