My parents hadn’t heard the radio interview or seen the celebrity gossip on television. They weren’t into that side of So Cal, the side that was full of glitz, glamour, and the sort of conspicuous consumption they were against. It had been hard to convince them I should go to UCBH over Wesleyan back when I’d applied to college, precisely for that reason: they were worried that crossing over to the wrong side of the tracks, the side which cared more about what was in the tabloids than what was in the New York Times, would turn me into someone that I wouldn’t like. For that same reason, they’d been against me being in Omega Mu Gamma, and the only way I’d been able to convince them to let me attend UCBH was because I’d said that “connections” would be helpful and that I’d visit home often (I hadn’t). I’d told then that I wouldn’t change, that school would come first, and that Omega House was just for the resume, so I’d have an easy extracurricular, and that it wouldn’t change me (it had).
As I sipped at the cup of Earl Grey my mom had made, an uncontrollable, unstoppable image of Jason’s face popped into my head.
I got changed, out of Kim’s clothes and into the pajamas I’d packed without looking. If I’d seen which ones I’d packed, I would have chosen something else, but there they were, in my hands: plaid pajama bottoms and a thin ribbed cotton tank top. They were the ones that Jason had bought me to wear at his house, the ones that I’d worn when I slept next to him, the ones that, as I raised them to my face and inhaled, still smelled of him: of us. It was sweet and musky at the same time, like a deer eating an apple, and it was uniquely ours, a blend of both our natural scents and of the smells of our lifestyle: his body wash, my shampoo, the tea we’d drink together as we watched the TV in the room that smelled of vanilla candles.
After I slipped them on, I looked in the mirror, and I knew I had to do something. There was something that I needed to change, and it was something I should have done a long time ago, or rather...not have had to have to do at all.
“Mom, do you know where Jaina’s working now?” I asked, as I came out in the pajamas.
“Oh, usually around five, why?” she asked, curious that I’d want to hang out with a cousin I hadn’t exactly gotten along with in elementary school, before I’d become interested in fashion the way Jaina always had been. She’d been the prissy princess, I’d been the tomboy and slight bully, before I became the nerd.
“There’s just...something I need,” I said, and I texted Jaina, asking her when I could see her. I got a message back in minutes: she had a free spot open up and could see me if I got to her salon soon. My mom gave me a ride, knowing that if I needed to see Jaina about something, it was important.
It was, in a way, but not for the reason she thought. As I entered the salon, Jaina turned, her hair not in braids or a colorful weave as I’d last seen it, but just worn naturally and plainly. The salon had looked very eighties before, but now, it looked more modern, with black counters, white tile flooring, and soft lighting. “Cuz! You look a mess,” she said, ushering me over to her chair. “I would be to, though, if everyone knew I was a man stealer!”
I sighed. “It’s not like that. At all. I’ve never even been with Keanne... ‘that way’” Every time I came home, I felt like I was under a microscope. It could get annoying and it was part of why I didn’t come home. My parents were serious and would ask me about school and my career plans. My other relatives would give me the third degree on my dating life. “Anyways, I came because I need a favor. I can pay, obviously. I just need to get this weave out.”
“I can’t, it looks so good!” said Jaina, combing through the weave with her fingers. “You sure you want this out? It’s such a good weave! Whoever put it in did such a good job.”
“You mean you?” I said with a sigh. I would pop in to see Jaina for touchups but they weren’t really necessary, and the last time I’d come in was over Christmas. Most weaves only lasted a month or two, but Jaina’s lasted five full months. She’d taught me to take care of it and I’d always followed her instructions.
“Whatever, Becca. It’s your hair, you want it out, you want it out.” As Jaina carefully undid her handiwork, wefts of hair, over the next few hours, I watched as the girl in the mirror became at once a stranger as well as a picture of me, from my all-too distant past. I hadn’t seen my natural hair in the longest time: it was bouncy, curly, and as dark as my eyebrows, unlike the light brown weave, made of the hair of some woman I’d never met who lived in India and had probably had it purchased for pennies and cents, although it had cost Jaina tens of dollars and myself hundreds to purchase, to have treated, and to be made into something else. It wasn’t really anyone’s hair. It wasn’t mine anymore, it wasn’t that Indian woman’s, and there was no magical woman with hair the color of iced coffee that was missing it.
After Jaina had removed every section of weave, I was left with rows of cornrows, which weren’t meant to look especially fashionable, but just acted as anchors for the weave. “Do you want those taken out too?” she asked gently. She knew how much the hair issue had bothered me when I first had come to her, when I was rushing Omega House. I had been the only black girl at rush, and when I was accepted, I was the only black girl. Although the numbers were getting better, girls like Kim and I had been the exception, not the rule, with more girls fitting the stereotypical blonde haired, blue eyes, pale skinned stereotype. It was so fucked, that a city like Los Angeles, which was filled with diversity, was though to just be another playground for attractive white people, but maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised. Growing up, all I’d seen on television, in terms of representation of the city, was shows about idle rich kids. The only times I saw people that looked like me, in a city like my own, they were portrayed as thugs or as criminals. Things were getting better now, but not fast enough.
As I looked at my head, covered in row after row of tight braids that had barely loosened since Jaina had last touched them up, I said, “Yes.” And I meant it. I knew that having natural hair wasn’t considered “professional” but that was such a double standard. How could people argue that who I was, the way I looked without processes or treatments, was somehow unprofessional?
Maybe the same reason that the girls at school had called me “Becca” instead of “Rebekah”, the full form, spelled the way my parents had wanted, the way that most would thing was “ghetto” or just plain out “wrong”, the same way my hair was considered to be, without them asking what it meant or why it was spelled that way. Nobody outside family members had called me “Rebekah” since middle school, not even close friends, and Jason only knew its true spelling because it’s what I signed on receipts. I’d insisted that my mom and dad call me “Becca” too, and they had, begrudgingly. People who thought my name was ghetto? They didn’t know that it was spelled that way because my mom’s grandma had been important to her and they wanted to spell it the same way hers had been spelled. They didn’t know that when they touched my hair and told me how “real” it felt, that it wasn’t something I was comfortable with.
I didn’t want to cause trouble, but at the same time, I shouldn’t have been concerned that bringing it up would be a problem. I shouldn’t have been scared to confront the people that I thought were my friends about their inappropriate behavior, but I guess that was further proof they weren’t really my friends. They were just a bunch of girls I lived with.
Finally, the braids were undone, and I was left with about six of thick, curly hair. I hadn’t seen it, in its natural state, for almost four years. Jaina took me to the washing station, used the salon shampoo and conditioner she’d send me home with, and took me back to the chair, where she trimmed the ends while they were still a bit wet, before drying it, doing a bit more trimming, and finally, adding her salon’s secret product, a mix of a bunch of stuff she mixed in the backroom, which gave my hair extra shine and protection from the elements.
“You know, we should hang out sometime,” said Jaina softly as she styled my hair into the easy wash-and-wear cut she remembered I
liked. Her own hair was longer and curlier, kept in a loose ponytail with a black handkerchief to keep the part of her hair that was convinced it was meant to be bangs out of her face. It matched her apron and the rest of her outfit, all black, reminding me of Jason.
“We should,” I agreed, and I meant it. I’d always worked so hard, trying to get out of Compton, to get to Beverly Hills, to the “big time”, but now that I’d flown too close to the sun and been burned too hard, I didn’t want to go back to that world any time soon. I didn’t know what I was doing this summer, but while I figured it out, I knew I would have my family around to support me.
“What are you doing about graduation?” she asked gently.
“I’m going to skip it. Finals and then I’m done,” I said with a soft smile, not wanting to turn and mess up her handiwork as she ran her hands through my hair again, in a way that no girl at the sorority could do so respectfully.
“You sure that’s what you want?”
“Yeah, I do. By the way, the salon...it looks really nice,” I said. “Not to imply that before, it didn’t, or anything.”
“It’s fine. Yeah, I’m going for a modern, sleek look. I’m part owner now,” she said, smiling widely. “I’ve been continuing to take some more classes at night, and I want to get certification for the products I make in the back. I think that people would want to buy them. Plus...well, a certain celebrity is looking at endorsing them.”
“Please don’t say it’s Lana Minashian,” I groaned.
Jaina laughed. “If that bitch set her foot in this salon, it’d be the last place she set it. And no, Keanne isn’t endorsing it either. You know that singer, Kiara Lynn?”
I nodded. She had natural hair and was described as the “black Taylor Swift” but in ten year’s time, some other woman would be described as the “Asian Kiara Lynn” or something. She was a country singer who added a dubstep influence to her work. She’d made it big in Nashville and her album was set to be bigger than Keanne’s had been last summer.
“Well, her stylist tried some of my product, and then used it on Kiara, who loved it so much that her people called my people – so, just me,” said Jaina with a laugh. “And anyways, next time she’s in town, we’re going to do a before and after photoshoot. I think the product is going to change things, Becca. There’s nothing on the market like it right now.” She held up a lock of my hair and held it closer to the marquee lighting. “Look at that shine. Look at the way that the light hits your hair, the way it makes it practically glow. There’s no bleach in it, but basically, it’s meant to bring out the best colors in hair without damaging it or changing its texture. Everything on the market right now is meant to relax or straighten hair, it’s meant to hide it rather than accentuate its best features. I want to change that.” Jaina was right. The locks of hair, which had been dull and frizzy when she first undid the braids, were still curly but had an additional shine that didn’t look or feel oily. The hair shined a natural brown, but not just a single color, like a gloss: an entire wooden-toned rainbow was reflected in my hair, as if it was a prism in a sepia world.
“It’s beautiful,” I said. “And your product does that?”
“While leaving minimal buildup and no long or short term damages,” she said proudly. “It’s weird. I never thought that I’d be into the natural hair thing. Remember, growing up, you wanted books for your birthday, and I wanted a weave? Things have changed a lot, haven’t they?” she said, putting her hand on my shoulder and rubbing it.
“They sure have,” I said. “They sure have.”
Jaina and I had changed so much in the last four years, but so had our dreams, our goals, our focuses in the last six months alone. She’d thought she was going to work for celebrities that could afford to put in a weave or extensions for just a single night, and I’d thought I was going to live the high roller lifestyle with Keanne, but now? Both our goals were so different. She was launching a product for women with natural hair, and I...well, I didn’t know what I was going to do.
When I got home, I saw my dad for the first time in months. He didn’t say anything, just gave me a long hug, the kind only dads can give, before pulling away, giving me a kiss on my cheek, and sitting next to my mom. We talked about everything that had happened and gone on, and my parents told me they weren’t ashamed of me, but annoyed at the unjust society that protected men like Keanne at the expense of women like me, who were tried and tested in ways he’d never be. My mom was angry, and my dad, the voice of reason, calmed her nerves, but still, I was stuck in a liminal place, not knowing what I should do. Should I try and find a place in some other city and become a journalist for a small town paper?
I didn’t know, and that night, I had a restless sleep. The next day, all I wanted to do was sleep some more, but my mom said I had to wake up and do something. I tried journaling, I tried playing video games, I tried everything, but I couldn’t get the thoughts of Keanne’s betrayal or my abandonment of Jason out of my head. I didn’t dare check my email, social media accounts, or my phone, though, because I knew that Jason must have contacted me, and that was something my parents still didn’t know about: Jason.
That night, my dad turned on the news, and I was forced to remember his face as I watched his parents, the news anchor wonder couple, on the television. They talked about the traffic in Los Angeles, about world events, and then...
“We have a special treat for you tonight, Los Angeles,” said the perky middle aged blonde woman. “Our special celebrity guest tonight is none other than the rapper, Keanne!”
“Oh no,” said my mom, and my dad reached to turn the channel, but I was intrigued. What were the chances of Jason’s parents interviewing Keanne?
“Leave it, dad,” I insisted. “I...want to see what they have to say.”
“Are you sure?” asked my dad, but my mom shushed him.
The camera panned as Aaron and Eileen Darryl walked over to the set where there were three cheery orange chairs on a yellow carpet. Keanne was sitting in full regalia, as usual: thick gold chains over a tuxedo with a loud patterned tie, wearing neon sneakers. He hadn’t even bothered to take off his sunglasses.
“So, Keanne, your new album is set for release this summer...but is the truth?” asked Aaron.
“Uh, I don’t have a single called “The Truth””, said Keanne, cool as a cucumber on the outside, but I didn’t know if he was feigning ignorance or trying to hide something else: guilt.
“You’ve stated that one of your interns, who will go unnamed, came onto you on your private plane, yes?” asked Eileen.
“That’s right,” said Keanne. “This ho –” The word was bleeped out. “She tried to get up on this di—” Another bleep. “But I said no because I already have a woman.”
“That’s right, you do,” said Eileen. “And here she is, now.”
A woman came out, who I recognized as one of the members of Keanne’s entourage, the “shots girl” who would bring us different shots at whatever club we were at. She was almost unrecognizable, wearing minimal makeup and out of her usual cocktail dress, wearing a plain skirt and blouse with sandals.
“Th-that’s not her,” said Keanne with a laugh.
“Oh, is this her then?” asked Aaron, another women coming out behind him and standing next to the first woman. She was tall, Asian, and definitely not Lana.
“N-no, I mean –” stuttered Keanne.
As woman after woman came out, the set got very crowded.
“So, none of these women are your girlfriend?” asked Eileen innocently, with her signature smile.
“That’s right,” said Keanne.
“So, explain these pictures then?” asked Aaron, and the television on the set started up a slideshow of Keanne and evidence of his lecherous behavior, as he groped, kissed, and surreptitiously rubbed against the various women on set.
“It looks like you’ve got quite the keen game,” joked Eileen. “All these women were under your employ, and yet, you’ve bee
n seen sexually harassing all of them and abusing the state of authority you were entrusted with.”
As I watched in disbelief as Keanne was called out for his behavior, my heart lifted. I wasn’t the only one he’d done this to? Any guilt I had, about having led Keanne on, or having somehow deserved what had happened, lifted. Keanne hired attractive women to provide him with eye candy and proceeded to sexually harass them, and so he was called out as a lecherous predator, and I was no longer the home wrecker I’d been accused of being.
Later that week, I read that Lana Minashain had broken up with Keanne, citing “irreconcilable differences”. The other employees were filing a sexual harassment lawsuit against Keanne, but that wasn’t what mattered to me: what mattered was the fact that Jason’s parents had gone to bat for me, had exposed Keanne in order to save my reputation.
And what had I done?
I’d pushed Jason away.
Chapter Seventeen:
I HAD BEEN HOME FOR FIVE DAYS, but I still missed Jason and missed parts of my old life. I missed Starbucks, Rodeo Drive, and clubbing, but I didn’t miss UCBH, Omega House, or Keanne. Unfortunately, it seemed like I couldn’t have any of those things without the others, and Jason was part of that world. I’d left disgraced, and although now, my reputation was fine, now that Keanne had been exposed, I still felt like I didn’t belong there. I neither wanted to go back to Beverly Hills nor felt like I was worthy enough to if I wanted.
I woke up to the smell of tea and the chattering of voices that I recognized I couldn’t quite place as I woke, still groggy. As I got changed and kept listening, I slowly recognized them. Mom, Dad...and Jason?
Wearing just my white dress, a headband, and sandals, I walked into the dining room and took a peek around the corner. My ears hadn’t deceived me. There they were: my mom, my dad, and the man I’d thought I’d never see again.
“Jason?” I said, all of a sudden too self-conscious about how I was standing.
Throb (Club Grit) Page 14