by Miko Branch
DOING ME
Soon after our relocation, I had an epiphany about what I wanted to do in life: hair.
I’d been searching for the right fit ever since our failed cleaning-business venture with our father. Initially, I made more than a few fumbles. My mother even found me a job in a graphic design shop, which I wasn’t feeling. I’d always loved fashion, and I’d inherited my mother’s aesthetic sense, so going into fashion seemed like an obvious move.
But mostly, FIT taught me what I didn’t want. My courses focused too much on the technical side of the fashion business. I spent long hours in draping and pattern-making class before manually sewing each garment. I’m impatient, and there was no immediate gratification to building a fashion collection. It was a major investment of time and effort, then trying to get financing for it seemed challenging. I quickly figured out it wasn’t for me, although I had to finish what I started. Anything to avoid Daddy’s usual chastisements if I failed to complete my degree. In the end, that turned out to be a good thing: It helped me to get more focused on my goals. Experiencing the feelings of being on the wrong path motivated me. When I eventually found my way, I benefited from the knowledge I’d gained at FIT. Once I was passionately moving in the right direction, that allowed me to appreciate every single step.
The same day I graduated from FIT, I enrolled in hair school on Thirty-fourth Street in New York City. Although I would never admit it to my parents, I secretly thought I was taking the easy way out and felt a bit guilty, like I was somehow being self-indulgent. I didn’t feel like I was challenging myself, because I was naturally good at doing hair. Why did I think my life’s work should be a constant grind?
I remembered the thrill it gave me to do my grandmother’s hair, and the look of sheer pleasure on her face when she looked at herself in the mirror. That was a gift for me as much as for her. I could spend hours on someone’s head and not even notice the passage of time. Purely through the work of my two hands, I could give someone joy, and I wanted to experience that feeling again and again.
Sometimes the right thing is the easiest thing.
Of course, I caught hell for it. This time both my mother and father laughed at my decision. “A hairstylist? Really? Well, I guess you could do celebrity hair to make your career seem more professional,” Mommy said. While she’d heard of hair greats, like Vidal Sassoon, she couldn’t imagine I would find my creative outlet in hair.
“You’ll get varicose veins,” Daddy chimed in.
Even though they were divorced by then, our parents were in agreement on this one thing. Only Titi was supportive. “Miko, don’t listen to them. This is something you love, and you are great at it. That’s a blessing.”
As always, my sister let me do me.
HAIR RAISING
Hair school was wild, with all kinds of personalities. There were some sweet, hardworking women, but many were on the rough side, and to call them catty would be an understatement. On a few occasions I witnessed girls come to blows.
One young woman with a long weave like Naomi Campbell’s somehow sparked the collective hatred of a group of students. She was attractive, drove a Range Rover, carried an oversize cell phone—which was rare for the early nineties—and was dating a rich Manhattan doctor. One day after class, a group of girls decided to jump her. I stepped out of the building in time to catch the tail end of the scuffle. It got so nasty that one of her attackers pulled that long weave right out of her scalp, forcing the poor woman to flee down the street with bald patches.
My upbringing in Queens had taught me how to defend myself, but I’d also learned how to avoid unnecessary confrontation. I kept my head down and my mouth shut, minding my own business. It was a seven-and-a-half-month course, and all I wanted was to get through it. Again, I couldn’t stand the thought of hearing Daddy’s rebukes if I failed. But more than that, I wanted to take care of business for my own sake, honing my craft and getting the necessary qualifications to have the career I was meant for. This was a brief stop along the way, a means to an end, and the environment or attitudes of the other students didn’t matter. If I’d gotten too involved in the dramas of other people, it would have taken me off my path.
In any case, I didn’t have time for distractions. As I was training, I continued to pay the bills by doing full-time hours as a receptionist, and then I started waitressing at a coffee shop in the Village called the Figaro. It wasn’t easy work, but those jobs were another aspect of my education, teaching me something about my future business. As a receptionist, I learned how important phone skills can be when handling new clients. The tone of your voice can set the whole mood of the transition. As a waitress, I learned that great service can be integral to a customer’s whole experience.
Take care of your clients and treat them with respect.
My first job after graduating from hair school in 1994 reinforced those lessons. After being rejected on an interview at Jacques Dessange on Park Avenue in Manhattan, I made my way back to the train station almost in tears. I had not performed well on the hair demo, and I was still stinging from the withering sarcasm of the French hairstylist who’d interviewed me. As I walked along East Sixty-first Street near Bloomingdale’s, I spotted an upscale salon—Hair Styling by Joseph—and something told me to walk in. Joe Plaskett, Jr., son of the business’s founder and its chief stylist, hired me for an entry-level position right on the spot.
Discovering Joseph’s was eye-opening, because the salon was busy and classy. It was also a family operation that was successful. They’d been in business since 1961, starting from a two-chair salon in the East Village to an establishment that was booked solid every day with VIP clients who came from all over the country to be professionally pampered and groomed. In no time, Joseph’s had become the destination for such luminaries as Cicely Tyson, the Ronettes, the Isley Brothers, Patti LaBelle, and Nancy Wilson.
Our experience with our father had jaded us, but here was an example of a business run by the family patriarch, Joseph Plaskett, Sr., in which every member was valued for the role he or she played—the sisters, brothers, in-laws, mother, and father. Years before, they’d bought the multistory town home, each of the three generations occupying a floor, with the lower two levels dedicated to the thriving business. It was a blueprint of how a family business can work, and I respected the model.
In some ways, Joseph reminded me of Daddy at his best. He was an entrepreneur at his core who dabbled in all kinds of businesses until one day he announced to his family, “We are going to do hair.” He’d come across a number of wealthy and elegant women of color who were lacking a destination salon that could give them top service in an exclusive environment.
At Joseph’s, I marveled at all of the women with disposable income. A fair share of professionals, socialites, and celebrities, such as Diana Ross, Tyra Banks, and Angela Bassett, patronized the salon during a time in the early nineties when we were in somewhat of a recession. These VIPs were serviced on the second floor, which was full of A-listers. On some days it looked like the greenroom at the Oscars. But I wasn’t starstruck so much as impressed with Joseph’s stellar reputation and business savvy. That was my first exposure to the notion that people are willing to pay for quality.
“Wow, Titi, you wouldn’t know we were in a recession if you saw all the money these women spend on themselves and their families,” I told my sister.
“Really? Hmmm. I guess there must be a level that’s recession-proof,” Titi said.
When you are good at something, you always have something to sell, no matter what is happening in the economy.
“Yes, that, and maybe the fact that when you offer top-quality service, money is no object when it comes to a woman’s hair.”
I stayed there for about a year. The salon offered me medical benefits and a guaranteed salary of $250 per week, Tuesday through Saturday, plus tips. I was satisfied and thrilled with my new position. I was actually getting paid to do what I loved. Even better was their
willingness to reward hard work and initiative with opportunity.
“Miko, when you first walked into this place, I saw a fire in your eyes,” Bryant, a junior stylist at Joseph’s, told me. “I could tell you’d do whatever it took to work hard and make it.”
Bryant became a fast friend, showing me the ropes and sharing the long train ride back to Brooklyn, where he also lived. According to him, the Plaskett family was extremely picky about whom they would have work in the salon, but they’d welcomed me with open arms. “They knew you were one of them straight away,” Bryant teased.
At first, no one wanted me to wash their hair or “get them started for the main stylist.” Although that used to hurt my pride, I worked extra hard and volunteered to do everything I could, eventually becoming so proficient that the clients would request and wait for me to prep their hair for the stylist. My relaxer, roller set, and shampoo became impeccable, and I made a point of becoming invaluable to whatever stylist I assisted. This got the attention of the owner, who was affectionately known as “Senior.”
Typically, assistants train for one to two years before becoming an assistant, but in a matter of weeks I was assigned to shadow a lovely and talented man named Walter. He taught me a lot, and I admired his good relationships with his clients. Not only was Walter a highly skilled technician, he was focused solely on the satisfaction of his customers, wanting nothing more than for the women who sat in his chair to have a great experience. I took it all in, learning from a master craftsman.
Another stylist I formed a bond with was Kemi. She was Joseph Jr.’s wife, and her name was short for Akemi, my mother’s middle name. Kemi was half black and half Japanese, like me, and she was the first woman besides Titi in whom I could see my own mixed-race heritage. She was beautiful, with long, glorious thick hair and a serenity that reminded me of my mother. Kemi seemed to quietly like me. After three months, I got my confidence up and asked her if I could style someone’s hair from start to finish. Much to my surprise, she said yes. Within a year of graduating from hair school, I had become a bona fide stylist at one of Manhattan’s most exclusive salons. I was always booked, which was unheard of at such a coveted institution.
I loved it at Joseph’s. The atmosphere was upscale yet supportive. I felt like part of the family. Of course, the place was strict, with a clear pecking order, and Senior expected us to execute everything perfectly. Although he had retired from doing hair by the time I came, Bryant made sure to let me know the standards set by Senior. “When we prep clients to be seen by the advanced stylist, he doesn’t hesitate to make us shampoo their hair all over again if something isn’t exactly according to his standards,” Bryant shared with me. “Things have to be right when you represent him and his business.”
I understood why Joseph was tough. It had to be that way. It was a high-volume business catering to a demanding clientele who expected the best, and an unhappy client never came back. We had to be an extension of that top stylist, acting as his second, third, and fourth pair of hands, to allow each customer to get exactly the same high level of service. It was more information I filed away for future use.
HAIR CATS
Finally, I had found my niche, and that gave me professional validation. When I started down this new career path, I did not get too comfortable. An instinct was driving me to try other things, so I went off in search of new techniques at other salons. I wanted to learn as much as I could.
I discovered that the hair business isn’t always as friendly as it was in my first salon. I moved on to a trendy shop downtown that attracted younger clients who were into short cuts and weaves—even more celebrity-focused, with hair featured in magazines like Essence. I found it a horrible experience. Maybe, since I was coming from such a nurturing environment, my skin was too thin, but the atmosphere was challenging. At that salon, it wasn’t about what the client wanted as much as what the stylist wanted. I found the in-house politics unworthy of the time it would take me to navigate them. I did a few stints at other fancy salons in Manhattan; I had bigger dreams, so I learned what I could and moved on. My dad’s constant drumbeat finally took hold. I enjoyed the creative side of hair, as well as the interaction with clients. I wasn’t going to let the competitive environment of the salon world distract me from my goals.
Ever the entrepreneur, I increased my expertise in the area where I was born to work: hair and beauty.
HIGHER LEARNING
As I was learning the salon industry across the water in Manhattan, Titi and I dove headlong into the social scene of Brooklyn. We were eager to make as many connections as we could with young black professionals who seemed more sophisticated and worldly than the kids we’d grown up with. In a way, we were completing our education in the school of life, and something told us we could learn from them. Brooklyn was more a university-level education.
One of my professors in this particular life school was Garrett Fortner, author, entrepreneur, and publisher of New Word Magazine, a cool grassroots jumbo-sized lifestyle publication focused on the Brooklyn arts scene. It was the first magazine to put the rapper Lil’ Kim on the cover. New Word featured everything that was authentic and cool in black culture, with stories on Spike Lee, Mary J. Blige, and Gary Dourdan, to name a few. I used to see the larger-than-life magazine covers on newsstands around the city, and they reminded me that a fresher, hipper expression of our generation was happening.
I met Garrett in 1996 at an art opening in Brooklyn Moon, a café on Fulton that was a cool spot for the borough’s funky crowd. It had everything from poetry slams to great sandwiches and coffee, all in an intimate space reminiscent of an old speakeasy. This tall, extremely slim dude in overalls and an applejack hat walked right up to me like he owned the place. “Hey, wassup, what’s your name?” he asked me.
I said nothing, staring and trying to figure out what to make of the moment. A kind of modern-day Beatnik, he had Brooklyn written all over him. I came to learn he loved Afrocentric beauty—the blacker, the better. He loved all the things that made a black woman unique, whether it was the way she walked, talked, or handled her business. He was black and proud.
As I got to know him, I learned that Garrett had an authentic Brooklyn demeanor and an entrepreneurial spirit that intrigued me. He was exactly the kind of person who’d attracted my sister and me to Brooklyn in the first place. Knowing his hands-on grassroots experience in publishing, I figured he could be a valuable resource. After doing hair on my own for about nine months, I decided to raise my profile by doing hair for magazines and other outlets. I thought this would be a good way to keep new clients coming and to diversify my streams of income.
When I called Garrett, we arranged to meet up again at the Brooklyn Moon later that day. I wanted to pick his brain some more and learn all I could about how the media world worked. If I was going to become a successful businesswoman, I had to get my name out there. Garrett was quick to make good on his promise and arranged various opportunities for me to do hair, including photo shoots with celebrities like Garcelle Beauvais.
I owe much of what I know about marketing from my long conversations with Garrett, a brilliant entrepreneur who shared many insights on building a business and a brand. It was good to find a mentor besides my father—someone who could give me another perspective to business. Garrett would ask me all sorts of questions to get me to think about my future. He had me map out my career by doing fun exercises, interviewing me like a reporter. As he grilled me, he’d have me spell out three things that I wanted for myself: to own real estate, to have a prosperous family business, and to have a hair product line. Intellectually, he engaged me and got me to focus on things in a way I never had.
Garrett inspired me. Witnessing his world up close was a reminder that there was still a wide gap between where I was in my career and where I wanted to be.
Five
READY TO ROLL
You are only as good as your tools.
—JIMMY BRANCH (DADDY)
I
started small in my salon business. The point was to keep my overhead as low as possible. I never wanted to be in a position where I couldn’t pay my bills. As a result, my business consisted of a chair in our living room. That was all the furniture we had in that space. I had taken my earnings from past jobs to buy a used chair from a salon supply store, and then I took the sink out of our bathroom and replaced it with a shampoo bowl.
It was around this time that my father began to understand how serious I was about a career in hair. To my surprise, he asked me to cut his hair. He wanted a proper men’s barber cut—something I had only done once when I was fifteen and cut my high-school friend Ottavio Johnson’s hair. I was nervous because I knew Daddy was observing my work, and I was bracing myself for a critique. As I pulled out my cutting tools, trying to get my bearings, I fumbled, nearly dropped the razor, and giggled to cover my embarrassment. In that moment, my father turned around in the chair to face me and told me to switch off the buzz cutter. Then he offered some wisdom: “Miko, you are only as good as your tools. Be in full control when you operate them, and invest in a good set. This is how you can build your craft.”
He must have liked my work, because my father, a stickler for good grooming, has trusted me for haircuts ever since. That stamp of approval meant everything.
MAKING RENT
My one-chair salon made a small profit, and I was able to cover my part of the bills. However, I did not have a shop front and could not advertise my services on the street. One slow month, it was getting to the point where I couldn’t make rent. A friend in the neighborhood told me someone was looking to hire a bartender for a party at the Rose Castle Grand Ballroom in Brooklyn. The woman who ran the catering company, Christine, happened to have a small café around the corner from our apartment, on Fourth Avenue. I stopped by to introduce myself. “Hi, I heard you’re looking for someone to work tonight,” I told her.