The Women of Saturn

by Connie Guzzo-Mcparland

  I stopped writing to the journalist once I realized that his rants sounded like a broken record, and his responses were almost always politically motivated.

  “Don’t wait for me for dinner. I’m going to the library to work on my paper,” Sean says, without looking up from his reading.

  “I kind of had hoped that, before dinner, we’d go order that bedroom set we saw at the Danish House.”

  Sean puts down the newspaper and says, “This isn’t exactly the best time for me to be looking at furniture. I have the paper on Jung to finish by the end of the month, the fundraiser ball to organize, and an election campaign to get started. Be realistic.”

  “I want a new bed for when we get married.”

  “Fine, but what’s there to look at?” he says as he closes the door. “We saw the furniture already. You know I don’t have that kind of dough, yet. If you buy it now, you’ll have to pay for it with your own money.”

  “Yes, of course,” I say.

  I have enough money to buy the furniture outright, but for how long will we still be thinking in terms of “yours” and “mine” instead of “ours”?

  I knock lightly on Angie’s door. “Wake up, Angie. We can’t be late.”

  In the shower, I close my eyes and let the water release the tension that has begun to take hold of me again. “Jung as in Yin and Yang,” I say to myself and think of the Taijitu design I saw in one of Sean’s books. The two black-and-white mirrored shapes resemble intertwined lovers lying on a bed. Would Sean start reaching out for me again once we got married, instead of both of us curling on our sides, facing away from one another, our backs rarely touching? He has been closed in his own world for quite a while. In our first years together, he spoke freely about his thoughts and dreams, and expressed aloud whatever crossed his mind. Maybe a new job, marriage, and a new bedroom set will jumpstart our new life together.

  I finish shampooing my hair and linger, eyes closed, letting the warm water run down my face. I’ll have to ask my mother what to do with the old set. Can she bear dumping it after all the years of loving care? She had discouraged me from using the bed, had considered it bad luck—because it had seen death.

  My father had struggled on it, gasping for air, in the middle of the night.

  “I wasn’t born lucky,” Mother would say later, when talking about her life.

  The old bedroom furniture has had its day, but everything falls into place in its own time, I tell myself. The right time for a new bed is now that Sean and I are getting married for real.

  While I set some bread, milk, and cereal for Angie, Sean collects his books from the kitchen table and leaves. “I didn’t know he lived here,” Angie says.

  “I had mentioned it to your uncle. He didn’t tell you?”

  “He never talks to me. Probably thinks I’m retarded or something.”

  “Well, Sean and I will be getting married very soon.”

  On the drive to school, we’re quiet for a long stretch, until Angie says, “Students talk about you at school … if you have a boyfriend…. They wonder how long it takes you to get ready in the morning. Your hair always looks so perfect.”

  “It’s because I care about how I look. You should too. It’s part of being a hairstylist.”

  “I don’t know if I want to…. I mean it’s a lot of frigging work.”

  “We’ll have to trim your hair in class, one of these days,” I say. Angie’s curly hair looks as if she hasn’t combed it since the night before. It has the wiry texture that lends itself to being shaped into an afro, but the back is too long and the crown hair is a shapeless mass.

  “I like it long,” Angie says, passing her hands over the hair on her neck, as if to protect it.

  I let Angie off in front of the school garage. “Don’t be late for class,” I insist.

  “Don’t worry, Miss.”

  I smile thinking that in spite of all the dire predictions, Angie will prove everyone wrong. A hair makeover and some new clothes should help Angie shed some of her awkwardness.

  Classes have resumed normally. The corridors at WLHS seem unusually quiet. I report the tire slashing to the principal. Mr. Champagne sighs and shakes his head. “I was afraid that the chaos of last Friday would incite students to vandalism.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t a student,” I say.

  “That would be too preposterous to think about. I’ve called a meeting to address all this,” he says.

  The daily bulletin announces a meeting for students after recess, followed by one for the staff. I figure that the meetings will take care of at least two periods. Some teachers complain about too many class disruptions, but at times like these, ill prepared as I am, I pray for them.

  At the office, I try to line up another volunteer for a permanent demonstration, but Susan can’t make it. Since the stink bomb incident, the office staff has been inundated with extra work, revising the teachers’ supervision schedules and preparing for the meeting. Then she invites me to a Halloween party at a country place she has rented for the winter.

  “I’d love to go,” I reply. “But I have a fundraising event that evening—a ball—to go to with my fiancé.”

  “Fiancé? I didn’t know you and Sean were engaged.”

  “Well, we’re planning on getting married soon. But don’t say anything, yet.”

  This is the earliest I have gotten to school in a long time. I’ll have time to look over some notes on hair relaxing, the next topic on the program. Unlike the academic teachers, who have a different class every forty-five minutes, I have the same small group of students for five hours a day—a long time to keep the students interested and occupied. Thankfully, because of the meeting, I only need to plan for three hours today.

  In class, I pore over the thick program of study provided by the Ministère de l’Éducation, but am not inspired by it. I give up on the lesson plan. Students don’t look forward to theory lessons, and are generally not very curious about the why and how hair is affected by the various procedures. “Why are we studying chemistry?” they’d ask. All they want to do is style hair.

  Angie walks into class early with Linda and Gina and, as the other students drift in, they all give Angie a high five, except Franca and Mary, who sit quietly. After reading the bulletin to the class, I ask the students to continue the same exercise as Friday.

  “Miss, when are we going to practice on real people?” Gina whines, as the rest of the class get their hairdressing implements and mannequins ready. “I’m getting tired of these dummies.”

  “Stop talking about Franca like that,” Angie says. Everyone laughs—except Franca, of course.

  “I wouldn’t talk, if I were you,” Franca snaps back.

  “I can talk all I want,” Angie retorts.

  “Just because you live with the teacher?” Franca replies.

  “That’s enough from you two,” I say. I have a brainwave. “Angie, how about we straighten your hair?”

  I had been itching to do something to Angie’s hair since she first arrived in my classroom.

  Angie raises both hands to her mass of unruly hair, “No fucking way. What if I don’t like it, and who is doing it?”

  “I’ll do it as a demonstration, Angie, but please … watch your language.”

  “Oh, shit, I’m in real trouble now!” Angie says.

  “Language again … please!” I say, gathering products for the demonstration.

  “I only said ‘shit’.”

  “Angie! Enough already!”

  “Go for it, Angie” Linda says.

  I ask Fotini to wash Angie’s hair.

  “You’re jealous, aren’t you, puke-face?” Angie sticks out her tongue at Franca as she sits on the hydraulic chair in the centre of the semicircle.

  “Stop bugging me, you retard,” Franca says, getting up and looking like she’
s about to punch Angie.

  “Okay, girls! Let’s stop the nonsense and get back to business,” I say, separating the two. “I can’t believe you’re acting like first graders.” I try keeping a good-natured tone, but am flustered at the change in Angie since the morning.

  “Straightening Angie’s hair is not exactly what I’ll be doing. The right term to use is hair relaxing.”

  “You should have given her some Valium to relax her before bringing her to school,” Franca mumbles.

  “I heard that, shit-face,” Angie tries to get up again. Standing behind her chair, I push Angie down by the shoulders with force.

  “Hair straightening is one of the most aggressive hair treatments,” I say in a strained tone, while the class laughs.

  I keep the theoretical lesson simple. I draw diagrams of three thin tubes on the board: the first, sharply curved; the second, less so; and, the third, a straight line. “These are hair follicles, as they look like inside the dermis,” I say. “How curly or straight hair grows out of the skin depends on the shape of the follicles.” I point to the sharply curved tube, and draw a tight, zigzagged line next to it. “This is Angie’s hair follicle,” I say. “As the hair is pushed out of the curved tube, it grows out frizzy. It’s genetic. We can’t change the shape of our hair follicles. In hair relaxing, all we can hope to achieve is to loosen the tightness of the waves as much as we can, and maybe get something like this.” I draw a wavy line next to the second diagram. “Of course, the more resistant the hair is, and the tighter the natural wave, the less relaxing we will achieve.”

  Angie has inherited her parents’ curly hair. Whereas her mother’s hair is soft and fine and used to fall gently on her shoulders, Angie’s hair is coarse and has a wiry feel—probably from her father’s family.

  “The curly hair gene is dominant over the straight one,” I explain.

  This statement usually triggers a flurry of questions and comments from the students, but this group is the most lethargic I’ve had in years. I skip all the chemical information about the different types of products available and show them the lotion we will be using—the same lotion used to perm hair. While straightening is the reverse of permanent waving, the same principle applies. “In the case of a permanent, straight hair takes the shape of the rod; in chemical relaxing, curly hair is forced into a straighter shape by combing it with a fine comb.”

  I explain to the class that hair straightening had been most popular in the early 1960s, when women ironed their hair and slept with giant rollers. Then, during the anti-fashion, back-to-nature, make-love-not-war movements of the last decade, the procedure lost favour, and women actually curled their hair to a frizz to achieve the wash-and-wear look.

  “Judging by the new tendencies in fashion, though, it won’t be long before women will want to smoothen out the frizzies again—like Angie here…”

  “This was your idea,” Angie shoots back.

  This is one of the hairdressing procedures I like the least. It’s messy and the products used smell like rotten eggs. I section Angie’s hair into four parts and start to apply lotion on the nape.

  “As you force comb the hair, the product breaks the hair bonds; the hair becomes soft and limp and takes on a new shape. You comb and comb until you feel that it’s the straightest it can be. Then you neutralize it like a perm.”

  Angie’s hair feels like steel wool. And to think that her mother’s hair had been the envy of all the girls in Mulirena! I remember Lucia using a wet comb to part it into waves over her forehead before going out for the evening passeggiate.

  I have everyone take turns combing and smoothing the hair down. “Angie’s hair is in good condition to start off with, and it can stand the trauma. But remember to analyze the hair carefully before starting, just like for a permanent. There is a risk of dissolving the hair at the roots as it is being combed.”

  “Can you get sued for that?” Franca asks.

  “For sure,” I reply.

  I accompany Angie to the sink, rinse her hair, and then comb the neutralizing lotion through it. I rinse the hair one last time again and then it’s ready to be cut and blow-dried.

  “Wow! It looks less bushy,” Gina says.

  Angie runs her hands over her hair. “It feels like I have nothing left.”

  “Maybe it’s not as straight as you’d like it,” I say. “But it’s the best we can do without hurting your hair.”

  “I never wanted it straight to begin with,” Angie says

  I’m happy to have gotten through the lesson, unprepared as I was, and hope that by the time I’m finished styling Angie’s hair, she’ll cheer up.

  “Your hair needs to be re-shaped,” I say, lifting the wet hair with an afro comb.

  “It will look much better after a haircut.”

  “No way!” Angie yells. “I don’t want to cut my hair. I told you already. It’s taken me forever to grow it.” Angie gets up from the chair and I know there’s no way to convince her to cut her hair this time.

  Without proper styling, Angie’s hair will look just as out of shape as it had before—only less full. I’m disappointed as I watch Angie’s unhappy face at the result. This procedure needs to be repeated every couple of months. Her hair will keep on growing wiry and bushy, just as it has been programmed by the genes she has inherited from her parents. I leave the class with a niggling feeling that maybe I acted too impulsively, leaving Angie with a hair battle she’s unprepared to take on.

  39. BAR À GO-GO

  IN THE AUDITORIUM, WE HEAR a vague report about the police investigation of the stink-bomb incident from Sergeant Prevost, and then we are introduced to two new aides in charge of security, Dave and Stefan. They both look as if they spend a lot of time at the gym. The two would make good bouncers in a nightclub or a good wrestling tag team.

  Mr. Champagne goes on to present a new set of rules concerning dress codes, entry and exit, as well as attendance and vandalism, and hands the microphone to the Sergeant.

  “We are monitoring a very serious situation,” he says. “There are bad crowds circulating around the school.” He goes on to tell students that the authorities know of a group of youths—not WLHS students, but outsiders—who push drugs and participate in other illicit activities around the neighbourhood. Drug dens have been discovered in close proximity to the school. Students are warned to stay away from any outsiders who try to enter the building.

  A new improved supervision schedule is part of the principal’s plan of action in combating this problem, and students will need to carry their school ID cards at all times. The student audience grumbles and boos, until the end-of-period bell rings and they’re dismissed. The secretary distributes the new schedules to the staff and we are reminded that the dress code and no-smoking rule applies to us as well as to the students.

  Bruce asks a question, “Did any other teacher besides Cathy find their car tires slashed on Friday afternoon?” No one else has.

  “These incidents are a direct result of the examples you’re setting for students. Please stick to the new rules,” Mr. Champagne replies and leaves while teachers grumble and boo just as the students had done a minute before.

  Steve takes over the meeting and asks teachers to count our supervision minutes with a fine-toothed comb, and make sure that the total doesn’t go over the number of minutes stipulated in our contract.

  Someone asks, about the safety issue for teachers supervising the entrances, “Students are slashing our tires. Who the hell do we call in case of a confrontation?”

  “They’ve covered their asses by scheduling two teachers at a time,” Steve replies. “I’ll bring the safety issue to the attention of the union, but for my intervention to carry more weight, you should all file a complaint right away.”

  On that note, the meeting is called to an end. Some file out, others line up in front to speak to Steve. Bruce cat
ches my attention and waits for me outside the auditorium. “Did you get home all right on Friday?” he says.

  “I’m fine. Thanks for bringing up the tire.”

  “Didn’t do much good. Did you notice? They have us two guarding the southeast exit on Day Four, Period Five.”

  I had noticed.

  “Are you lodging a grievance?” he asks.

  “I’m not complaining if you’re not,” I reply.

  “Is that a come-on?” he asks, elbowing me with a grin.

  I laugh, but can’t come back with a witty remark.

  We walk together towards the stairs in awkward silence and then we go our separate ways. I wonder whether Costa and George, from Miss Park Ex, have already heard about the two security guards.

  In the cafeteria I join some of my students who are sitting together talking about the meeting.

  “Miss, have you heard that there’s a ring that deals with white slavery?” Franca asks.

  “No I haven’t,” I say, amused. “You might be exaggerating, Franca.”

  “No, Miss. The same people who are pushing drugs are also forcing girls to have sex with older men,” she says.

  “That’s not white slavery,” Linda says. “That’s pimping.”

  “Whatever. But I’ve heard people talking about white slavery too,” Franca says.

  I feel drained by the day’s activities, and all the conjectures. I go to my classroom to be alone and wait for Angie. I had told her to meet me in class at the end of the school day.

  After the last period bell, I wait for thirty minutes, but Angie doesn’t show up. I drive slowly around the school neighbourhood looking for her. I honk at Fotini and Mary, who are walking together, and ask them if they have seen Angie.

  “I saw her walking with Linda and Gina. They probably went to the Club,” they say.

  They’d have to take a bus at Park Avenue. I hope to catch up to them. I can’t stop Linda and Gina from taking dancing lessons at the Bar à Go-Go, but I have to forbid Angie from going there—of all places! I speed towards the bus stop.