Hairtastrophe!

So it’s the day of the prom and I had an appointment with a stylist of a girlfriend of mine who swore that this guy could straighten my hair without a relaxer so STRAIGHT I would look like Cher… for a black woman that’s like a cure for cancer. I can’t remember what his name was, but I do remember that the salon was at Carson’s and it was considered THE PLACE to get your hair done…
I was earning a part time living then, flipping burgers and running the cash register at White Castle. This was one of my first forays into adult decision making – the other was a pair of high heels that made me look fabulous, but still make my calves ache when I just think about them. My mother told me a long time ago that beauty was pain and she ain’t never lied! When I was seventeen, I’d do whatever it took to me cute and I had two pair of high heeled pumps to prove it – right about now you can’t get me to try on a pair of high heeled shoes unless they have rubber soles.
Anyway, back to the hair. I’m at the salon, full of hope. My stylist comes up (no, he wasn’t a brother – probably my first mistake) and he puts his hands through my hair. Now, remember, he also does the hair of my good girlfriend from high school – Yolanda. Yolanda’s hair looks like a chiffon dream at school and she swears by this man. Now I really wasn’t a complete idiot, so before we begin this transformation that is supposed to turn me into a duplicate of Donna Summers , I asked him – are you sure you know how to do black women’s hair – have you seen hair like mine and can you make it straight without relaxing it? Oh, yes, no problem – don’t worry about a thing – when you leave here your hair will be perfection. I made another appointment for two weeks from that date just to make sure I could get back as soon as possible. Hope springs eternal!
Suffice it to say that after he washed my hair, he attempted to blow dry it. I don’t know if his arms gave out first or the blow dryer blew up – but he had to get an extra blow dryer to finish it. I will admit that my hair was straighter – but that’s not really the same as straight. He attempted to curl my hair with a curling iron and that was like trying to turn steel wool into whipped cream – it was a complete disaster. Seeing my increasingly furrowed brow, the stylist turns to me – “Well”, he says” I’ve never had someone whose hair was this difficult – and there is so much of it. Yolanda doesn’t have so much hair…”
NOW HE TELLS ME!
On the bus and I was ready to tear the arm pits off anyone who said anything out of pocket to me – no one said a word! By the time I actually got home I wanted to start crying but I literally didn’t have time – I needed to get dressed and I had to get over to the photographer’s to capture this magnificent moment for all eternity. My date was running on time because he was NEVER late for anything. My best friend ,Frances, came over to try and help me get prepared. My mother saw me come in the door, took one look at my now bird’s nest afro, and went to get the straightening comb – she just shook her head as tried to turn this disaster into something that wouldn’t send me to the Senior Prom looking an escapee from the African Bush. I don’t even think that the word hysterical comes close to what I was feeling at that point, but my mother and Frances worked hard to keep me from going crazy. I have no memory of where Alan was while all of this was going on.
By the time Edgar got there, there was no hint of the tantrums that had proceeded that moment. My mother saved my hair, Frances got my shoes on, and my make up was actually on my face. I took the cutest Prom picture, I was wearing a dress that the seamstress of one of my mother’s friend had made, and I had on a pair of heels that made me look smoking hot – you can only be that cute after such a fiasco when you’re eighteen – if that happened today there would be people in the morgue, and I’d be in jail.