Chemical Warfare

Sybil Johnson

Aunt Kitty’s weapons were great in the battle but could not really win the war of permanent change. After they had done their job of a good press and curl, the hair could quickly revert to its former state. This process of “going back,” as it was called happened at a more rapid pace depending on the texture of the hair involved in the fight. Of course, my hair being “strong” would begin to “go back” as soon as I got out of the chair and walked to the bathroom mirror to admire the marvelous change. Looking closely I could already see the return of my natural hair around the edges and in the “kitchen,” which is what the hair at the nap of the neck was called. That particular hair was usually very “strong” or in the vernacular “nappy.”  By the end of the day my hair would no longer have the smooth straight look but it would have “gone back” to its natural state. This is why the permanent was so popular. It was a magic preparation which could fight the battle with chemical warfare! “Ultra Sheen” was a subtle yet much more effective weapon, far superior to the hot comb and curling iron. Ultra Sheen, the name slid off my tongue like a Hershey bar on a hot summer day.  I sat in the shop waiting for Miss Ayesha to call my name. Mama was chatting away with the other women. They were discussing all sorts of things, mostly other women who were not in the room or either under the hair dryer where they could not hear.  This was grown women’s talk, things that I was not supposed to understand or care about. Little did they know that my careful reading of the magazine was merely for show.  I was recording every word of their coded messages and filing them away until my favorite decoder, my mother, would explain everything to me “in secret,” when we got home later.

At last, it was my turn. I leapt to my feet when Miss Ayesha called my name; she called me just like she had called all the other ladies. I was about to cross one of the bridges that led to womanhood, the place where little girls move from plaits and pony tails to real hairstyles, like in the magazines. The leather in Miss Ayesha’s chair had seen better days, if it even was “real” leather.  The places where it was torn scratched my legs in an annoying way. I didn’t want to say anything because everybody else had sat there without a problem. Of course I began to notice that I was the only one in the shop wearing shorts. Miss Ayesha called to my mother and said “this girl need super, ok” My mother who wanted the best of all possible results for this expensive procedure nodded her head and said are you sure? Miss Ayesha frowned at her as if to indicate that she was the expert and not my mother. My mother who is easily intimidated smiled and shook her head in agreement. I guess she hesitated because she always got “mild” perms, and wasn’t quite sure what “super”would be like.  After all she knew my secret. My hair was indeed strong but I was, after all “tender headed.”

As Miss Ayesha began to apply the permanent cream to my hair I closed my eyes and started to imagine how long, straight and beautiful my hair would be.  I would be able to sweat playing basketball, walk in the rain, or even go swimming. I would be free from the fear of my hair “going back” for a whole month!  Gradually, these lovely thoughts were interrupted by the unbearable chemical smell quickly followed by unexpected and excruciating pain! My mouth flew open and I had released an earsplitting scream before I knew it. The whole shop turned to look at me. My mother gave me her disapproving glance and Miss Ayesha who had carefully covered her hands with plastic gloves, said “girl you better be still, if this stuff get in your eyes you’a go blind! Did you scratch yo head yesterday?”  Right at that moment I remembered the instructions that had been given to me earlier.  I remembered that I hadn’t taken them seriously, after all what could scratching your scalp have to do with getting your hair done? The tiny scratches on my scalp had become deep caverns leading to an abyss of never ending pain.  All I could do was sit there and take it. I was required by the laws of this particular rite of passage to internalize the pain with closed lips. This was womanhood, learning to suffer in silence for the sake of social acceptance. I was emerging from the cocoon of child hood and would soon soar on gossamer wings. I imagined my hair floating in the wind, hair that my fingers could slide through, without becoming tangled. Why did I think this particular process would be painless? I knew that every other step toward womanhood had held its share of pain. So I sat there with my lips tightly holding back the thunder on my tongue. Tears met at the bottom of my chin and slid down my chest playing hide and go seek beneath my white t-shirt.

Finally Miss Ayesha said “go to the shampoo bowl.” I hurriedly moved to the chair and placed my neck in the cold ceramic headrest. It felt so good!  Miss Ayesha walked toward me in what seemed like slow motion with her hips swaying gently and her head turned to the side as she fired words from across her shoulder to the room behind her. She finally reached the shampoo bowl and turned the water on. It rushed out of the faucet like it was thirsty and splashed the top of my head, cooling the flames of chemical burning like a welcomed fire brigade. I relaxed and allowed the cool water and slippery shampoo to soothe my tender scalp. Then, to my dismay, Miss Ayesha began to roughly massage the shampoo into my hair with her strong fingers. I wanted to say, “that hurts” but my lips had been sealed. Even I knew the tradition of beautician/client. “When you sit in the chair you become the property of the beauty operator and she is allowed to treat you as she pleases. If you don’t like her work find someone else, but while in the chair you don’t challenge her.”  I had learned this from my mother who would often recount tales of beauticians who had cut her hair, not like she requested but how they wanted to. A few years later, when I realized that this code of behavior was ascribed to by only the non-aggressive, I declared my independence from this rule and stood up to beauticians and anyone else who tried to usurp my power.

The perm successfully won the hair war and I left the salon with long, straight and beautiful well behaved hair. But, like all wars that are fought, one is always required to return to fight another day. Maybe not the same war but another more difficult one is always on the horizon. This was just the beginning of many more hair wars in my future. Wars that would require me to fight even more valiantly.

Sybil Johnson has been involved with theatre for most of her life. She has worked with children’s theatre, community theatre as well as college and university programs. Sybil is currently senior lecturer in Theatre Arts at USP.