Black Beauty

by Constance Burris

  Ashley furrowed her brow. "Who is Crazy Jade?"

  Chantel pointed her comb at Treva. "Really, Treva, really? You just had to say something, didn't you?"

  Treva shrugged. "If you ain't gonna straighten it, somebody needs to. Her hair is the nappiest of all nappyville."

  The insult hurt, but Ashley boxed the pain away with all of the other hurtful jokes about her nappy hair and sat straighter. "Who is Crazy Jade?"

  "That red-headed lady living in your mom's apartment building."

  Ashley leaned forward. "You gotta be more specific than that."

  "You'd know her if you'd seen her, she's light-skinned and red-headed with freckles."

  "Red-headed with freckles? Is she even black?" Ashley asked.

  "Her nappy hair makes her black, just like your nappy hair makes you black."

  Ashley placed another hurt feeling in her box and transfixed her gaze on Treva. "Is she licensed?"

  "Am I licensed?" Treva laughed, dimples appearing on each cheek. "Are any of us licensed?" Ashley looked at the expired certificates on the wall both Chantel and Treva displayed proudly next to their booth.

  "Yeah, you got a point," Ashley said, and they all laughed.

  After the laughter ended, Treva said, "You can't tell by her nappy hair, but Crazy Jade can do a mean blowout."

  "But why do they call her crazy?" Ashley asked.

  Treva shrugged, suddenly deciding to pay attention to her client's weave.

  Ashley looked at Chantel.

  "Don't ask me I don't deal with her. And I ain't gonna curse myself by talking about her."

  "Curse? What the hell are you talking about?" Ashley asked. They had given her hope, and now they were taking it away.

  "Well, there are different stories," Treva said.

  As she spoke, the entire beauty shop quieted. The kids even stopped fighting with each other and crept closer to listen.

  "Well, I heard she's a voodoo priestess, and she got run out of Louisiana after they lynched her husband. And," Treva paused and looked around the salon before she stopped at Ashley, "her red hair and red freckles are the marks of the devil."

  "That stuff only exists in movies," Ashley said, relieved. Once upon a time she believed those stories, but she'd said 'Bloody Mary' and 'Candy Man' in the mirror enough times to know none of that crap actually existed. "Chantel, what do you think?"

  "I think no matter how nappy my hair was, I wouldn't go to her." Chantel lowered her voice and looked towards the kids. "Because from what I hear, she's a witch, and she has a room full of plants and spell books she uses to make her potions that will turn loud-ass nosy-ass kids into roaches." Chantal stomped her foot and the kids (and Ashley and Treva) jumped. "Sit y'all asses down and stay out of grown folk's business."

  The trio groaned and skulked back to the couch.

  "I don't believe in none of that," Ashley said. "There is no such thing as voodoo priestesses or witches. Treva, you got her number?"

  "Nah, she's a competitor, and she's crazy. Why would I have her number? I'm surprised you ain't seen her, though. She always out there at dusk, gossiping just like every other grown ass person in your momma's ghetto apartments."

  "Well, Chantel." Ashley hopped off the chair and grabbed a ponytail holder from the counter. "I'm going to see what Crazy Jade can do for me since you're not willing to give me what I want."

  "Whatever." Chantel turned towards her mirror, reorganizing the bottles of hair spray and styling gel.

  "Don't worry." Ashley pulled her hair into a low ponytail. "I'll be back for my trims and touch-ups."

  "You better," Chantel said without turning, but Ashley heard the sparkle in her voice, signifying all was forgiven.

  Ashley's mother's apartment sat across from the rental office, the pool, basketball courts, and the playground. Kids were already out sliding down the yellow plastic slides. Occasionally, bursts of laughter were interrupted with angry shouts as two boys, fought over the only working swing. Two groups of giggling girls watched from the shade as teenage boys and a few men ran back and forth on the basketball court with their shirts off. The sweat on their chests glistened in the noonday sun.

  This had been the setting of her childhood. Ashley had been raised in various apartments like this, moving every year or two when her mother decided she needed a change or didn't feel like paying the rent.

  She missed the busyness of living in apartments. Yeah, everybody knew your business, but drama was preferable to boredom. Two years ago, she'd gotten a government stipend and moved a few miles away into a house in an all-white neighborhood. None of the neighbors talked to each other, and none of the kids were allowed outside to play. The neighborhood was quiet and dull, but her boyfriend, Steven, urged her to stay. The all-white school was better, he'd insisted. Ebony, their daughter, would be guaranteed a better education.

  Using her key, Ashley entered her mother's apartment to see Cora and Ebony on the floor playing the Mickey Mouse matching game. From the number of cards on Ebony's side, it looked like Cora was letting the girl win.

  "Hi Momma," Ebony said before she turned her attention back to the game and flipped over a card. "I got it, Grandma." She clapped with triumph glittering in her eyes.

  If Ebony ever had to choose between Ashley and Cora, her child would choose Cora every time

  "Yeah you got it, baby," Cora said with as much joy as Ebony had expressed. Cora had flawless ebony skin and shapely hips and always wore a blonde wig or weave. "You back already?" she asked, leaning onto the living room table to help her stand. "Your hair don't look any better."

  Self-consciously, Ashley patted her ponytail. "Chantel doesn't have the stuff I like."

  Cora moved to the couch, grabbed a pack of menthol cigarettes and a lighter from the side table. She puffed on the butt of the cigarette as if she'd been waiting for a while to smoke. "That stuff never worked that well anyway." She flicked the cigarette ashes into the ashtray. "You just got nappy hair. But not like my grandbaby. My grandbaby got good hair."

  At the sound of her name, Ebony looked up, smiled, and returned to her game. She frowned when she saw it wasn't a match.

  Ashley bit her lip in frustration. It hurt to see Cora show Ebony so much love when she always took every opportunity to put Ashley down.

  "They told me there's a woman in your apartments that can do good blowouts," Chantel said, ignoring the sadness sitting heavy in her chest. "I thought I would go see her."

  Cora furrowed her brow. "Who?"

  "Crazy Jade," Ashley said, sitting next to Cora.

  "She gave me some lightening cream that goes on as smooth as butter. I'm almost as light as you." Cora craned her neck towards Ashley. "See?"

  Cora was exaggerating. She was nowhere near light, but she was much lighter. Ashley should have noticed it before, since her face and neck were a good four shades lighter than her chest.

  "Maybe I'll go see her right now," Ashley said.

  "If she can do hair half as good as she makes bleaching creams, you are gonna have white girl flow. Bet." Cora took a pull of the cigarette and nodded her head, the strands of her blond wig swung from side-to-side.

  "But why do they call her crazy?"

  "Don't believe what you hear. You know how folks like to gossip. She is just out there trying to make a buck to feed her child. People like to make up stories about her 'cause she don't tell her business."

  "Do you know where her apartment is?" Ashley asked.

  Cora nodded her head and she inhaled another dose of nicotine. Afterwards, she extinguished the cigarette and opened her front door. She pointed across the complex. "You see that apartment right there?"

  "Yeah."

  "It's behind that building, on the first floor. It's apartment 180. You can't miss it."

  The door to Crazy Jade's apartment stood wide open. A dark-skinned boy sat on the grass near the door playing with a broken tree branch. He was bare-chested and shoeless. His small uneven afro had a twig sticking out
of it.

  "Hey little man," Ashley said, apprehensively. "Do you live here?"

  He looked up and nodded. "Yes." The boy looked to be five-years-old, and he had onyx eyes that didn't seem to have a bottom. Ashley stared at them entranced, trying to decide if his eyes were beautiful or creepy.

  Ashley pulled herself from the depth of his gaze, remembering why she'd come. "Does Crazy Jade live here?"

  He blinked his long eyelashes. "My momma's name is Jade. She's not crazy, though."

  Ashley chuckled. "Oh, sorry. Does Jade live here?"

  "Yeah." His short ashy legs were a blur as he ran into the apartment yelling, "Momma!"

  A second later, a woman ran out of the back. "What is it?" she shouted, worry and shock flashed in her eyes. She wore a robe that hung halfway open showing her left breast. Soap bubbles were on her shoulders and neck, water glistened in her red, kinky hair. Her exposed breast and face were covered with mahogany freckles.

  This was Crazy Jade, Ashley decided. The boy's mother appeared just as they'd said. She had a short, nappy red afro and freckles. She also looked like a boy with a thin frame that barely held an ounce of fat.

  "There is someone here for you, Momma," he said, still excited.

  She looked at Ashley briefly before she returned her attention to the boy. "Coal, all of that screaming scared the hell out of me," she said, shaking his shoulders.

  "Sorry, Momma." He stooped his shoulders and shot a nervous glance at Ashley before he turned his gaze to the floor. The duo looked nothing alike. He was as dark as his namesake, but Crazy Jade was as pale as a white lady with the freckles to match. That was the thing with black folks, half the time you never knew what color your kids would be. Chantel had two babies two years apart with the same dad. The girls looked exactly alike, except one had light skin and the other dark.

  Jade released Coal and knotted the tie around her robe, finally covering her chest. "What you selling?" she asked, approaching the door.

  Ashley noticed white bits of lint clinging to the black robe, and she smelled strawberry body wash. "I heard you could do Brazilian blowouts." Ashley straightened, suddenly aware of the ninety-degree heat, and the sweat beading on her top lip.

  "I can," she said.

  Ashley's heart leapt. "Do you still use the one with formaldehyde?"

  "Coal, go back outside and play," Jade said.

  "Excuse me." He ran past Ashley and back outside.

  "That product's been banned." Jade crossed her arms in front of her chest.

  "I know." Ashley rolled her eyes. "But do you still use it?"

  Jade shrugged. "Maybe."

  Ashley closed her eyes and silently thanked God. "How much?"

  Jade lifted her chin and arched a brow. "You do know it's toxic, right?"

  "How much?" Ashley repeated.

  "450," Jade said.

  "Damn, are you serious?" Two hundred was the most Ashley had ever paid, and she had to practically lie, steal, and cheat to come up with that money.

  "Supply and demand," Jade said, tapping her bare foot.

  "That's more than twice what I pay at a salon. How about three hundred?" Ashley was desperate, but was she $450 desperate?

  "You can't get it at a salon. Four hundred."

  "Three-fifty." This time Ashley did not hide the desperation in her voice.

  Jade smirked and stepped back from the door. "Are you ready?"

  "Yes." Ashley's heart filled with joy as she walked into the apartment. She would have to sell the rest of her food stamps, but straight hair was worth living off ramen noodles and bologna two weeks.

  Her enthusiasm was momentarily forgotten when the apartment's humidity hit her in the face.

  "Sit here while I go change." Jade pointed to a chair in the kitchen. Ashley walked past the couch, the lone piece of furniture in the living room, and sat at the kitchen table.

  Just as Ashley wondered if Crazy Jade was ever coming back, the red-head stepped into the kitchen. She had changed into a pair of loose fitting blue jeans and a black t-shirt.

  "Why would you put something so toxic on your hair if you didn't have to?" Jade asked, as she rummaged through the kitchen cabinets.

  "It's the only thing that straightens my hair."

  Jade pulled out a white container the size of a cereal bowl, an orange rattail comb, and a curling iron from the bottom cabinet. "You're Black, your hair isn't meant to be straight."

  "Yeah, but I want good hair." Ashley fidgeted, trying to find a comfortable position in the hard chair. Was she really going to hear a lecture on the harmful effects of Brazilian blowouts and relaxers from someone who straightened hair illegally in her kitchen?

  "You mean straight hair?" Jade asked. She placed the container on the table and stood behind Ashley.

  "Straight hair or curly hair is good hair. Anything is better than nappy."

  Jade undid the ponytail and began pulling her hands through Ashley's coarse hair. She tensed, expecting the woman to pop a nap, but no snap or pain ever came.

  Jade opened the container, put on a pair of latex gloves, and began applying the cold cream to Ashley's hair. The smell was a mix between the stench of the last chemistry class she had taken before she'd gotten pregnant and dropped out of school and the flowers at the Myriad Botanical Gardens.

  "Why do you think you should have straight hair?" Jade asked, parting Ashley's hair with the tip of the comb.

  "Why do you care? You get paid for this. Shouldn't you be encouraging all black women to get their hair straightened?"

  "I'm curious. Human psychology has always interested me."

  "I'm half white," Ashley said, deciding to tell the truth. "My hair shouldn't be as nappy as it is." It was her hair. She could do whatever she wanted with it.

  "Well," Jade said, "I can make your hair so straight you'll never need another Brazilian blowout."

  "Really, I won't have any problems with new growth?" Ashley bent her neck so Jade could apply the cream to back of her head.

  "No," Jade said. "The product I use reaches into the hair follicle."

  "How is that possible?" Ashley mumbled. Her chin was practically touching her chest, and she was having a hard time moving her jaw.

  "I've added my own ingredients," Crazy Jade said with pride.

  "If you can do that, why don't you straighten your own hair?"

  "I had it straightened once, but nappy feels more me than straight." Jade spoke with a confidence Ashley envied.

  "I feel more me with straight hair," Ashley said. "Do you think that makes me ashamed of being Black?"

  "No, it's just hair. Besides if it made you less Black, then there wouldn't be an authentic Black woman in Oklahoma."

  Any response Ashley may have had, was forgotten when two of kids tapped anxiously on Jade's opened door. "What y'all want?" she asked.

  "Aunt Effie. Her chest is hurting real bad, and she can't breathe."

  "What y'all coming to me for?" Jade asked.

  "Cause you're a witch doctor," said a girl with big eyes and two French braids.

  "I ain't a witch ..." Jade began but trailed off. "Come on let's go." She removed her gloves, threw them in the trash, and turned to Ashley. "This won't take long. Just in case I'm not back in time, wash that out after ten minutes. Don't leave it in any longer."

  "Ten minutes isn't long enough," Ashley said.

  "Ten minutes," Jade repeated and followed the kids out of the apartment.

  Ashley sat on the chair in the small dining room and tapped her French manicured fingernails on the wooden table stamped with old cup rings and heat stains. The dining room seemed to be an afterthought to the builders. The table and four chairs barely fit into the small space.

  She looked at the gold-plated watch on her wrist and exhaled deeply. It felt like an eternity, but only one minute had passed. At the salon, she had Chantel and the other hairstylists to gossip with. Here she didn't even have Crazy Jade since the woman had run off to do God knows what. Why had
the kids come to Jade anyway? Was she some type of medicine woman on top of everything else?

  She brought her hands to scratch the inevitable burning and tingling that accompanied every Brazilian blowout, but she stopped in midair. Her hair and scalp might be able to take the toxic substance, but she wasn't sure about her unprotected hands. To occupy herself, she started tapping the table again, ignoring the burn. Cora had always told her beauty is pain.

  At the two minutes mark, Ashley walked to the cheap fiberboard bookshelf that separated the kitchen from the living room. She trailed an index finger along the children's books on the top and second shelf. Their frayed edges and discolored covers told her they were well read.

  She pulled Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein from the second shelf. It had been her favorite book as a kid. She loved the goofy pictures and how every other poem was sarcastic, dark, and humorous.

  I guess I should start reading to Ebony, Ashley thought as she flipped through the yellowed pages. Maybe if she paid her daughter more attention she'd stopped clinging to Cora so tight.

  Five minutes.

  As Ashley replaced the poetry book, a book with no title on the spine caught her attention. She picked it up. It had a brown paper bag as its cover. It smelled ancient, and she coughed as the musty smell attacked her sinuses. The paper almost felt handmade. Even if it wasn't, she knew it must be expensive because of the way it bent as she turned every page.

  Most of it was written by hand. She couldn't tell if it was written in another language or if it was code, but she could tell they were recipes. Each had what must be a title, a list of ingredients and a paragraph or two below.

  She wondered if one of these was the skin whitening cream Cora had bragged about, or the recipe for the Brazilian blowout. If she could get someone to translate it, maybe she could make it herself and save a few hundred dollars a month.

  She looked outside. The wind had picked up. A plastic Wal-Mart bag, dirt, and leaves blew past the door. Besides the wind, the only thing she heard was the distant laughter from the playground. There was nothing to indicate anyone was near the apartment. With shaking, clumsy fingers, she put the book in her purse and zipped it closed.