by Nicola Yoon
Later tonight at dinner, he’ll say something to my mom in Korean in the voice he uses to complain about Americans. I don’t really want either of them involved in this yet. We’re not ready for that kind of pressure.
Natasha says that all families are strange, and it’s true. I’ll have to ask her more about her family later after we do this thing. We descend into the subway.
“Get ready,” I say.
HARLEM IS ONLY A TWENTY-FIVE-MINUTE subway ride from where we were, but it’s like we’ve gone to a different country. The skyscrapers have been replaced by small, closely packed stores with bright awnings. The air smells brighter, less like a city and more like a neighborhood. Almost everyone on the street is black.
Daniel doesn’t say anything as we walk along Martin Luther King Boulevard toward his parents’ store. He slows down when we pass by an empty storefront with a huge FOR RENT sign and a pawnshop with a green awning. Finally we stop in front of a black hair care and beauty supply store.
It’s called Black Hair Care. I’ve been into lots of these. “Go down the street to the beauty supply and pick up some relaxer for me,” says my mother every two months or so.
It’s a thing. Everyone knows it’s a thing how all the black hair care places are owned by Koreans and what an injustice that is. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it when Daniel said they owned a store.
I can’t see inside because the windows are covered with old, sun-faded posters of smiling and suited black women all with the same chemically treated hairstyle. Apparently—according to these posters, at least—only certain hairstyles are allowed to attend board meetings. Even my mom is guilty of this kind of sentiment. She wasn’t happy when I decided to wear an Afro, saying that it isn’t professional-looking. But I like my big Afro. I also liked when my hair was longer and relaxed. I’m happy to have choices. They’re mine to make.
Next to me, Daniel is so nervous he’s vibrating. I wonder if it’s because I’m going to meet his dad, or because of the politics of his parents’ owning this store. He faces me and tugs his tie from side to side, as if it’s been too tight this whole time.
“So my dad’s really—” He stops and starts again. “And my brother’s really—”
His eyes are everywhere except on mine and his voice is strained, probably because he’s trying to speak without breathing.
“Maybe you could just wait out here,” he says, finally getting an entire sentence out.
At first I don’t really think anything of it. I figure everyone’s embarrassed by their family. I’m embarrassed about mine. Well, my father, at least. In Daniel’s place, I’d do the same thing. My cheating ex, Rob, never met my father. It was just easier. No listening to my father’s too-thick, fake American accent. No watching him try to find an opening so he can talk about himself and all his plans for the future and how he’s going to be famous one day.
We’re standing just in front of the store when two black teenage girls walk out laughing with each other. Another woman, also black, walks in.
It occurs to me that maybe he’s not embarrassed about his family. Maybe he’s embarrassed about me. Or maybe he’s afraid his parents will be ashamed of me. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before.
America’s not really a melting pot. It’s more like one of those divided metal plates with separate sections for starch, meat, and veggies. I’m looking at him and he’s still not looking at me. Suddenly we’re having a moment I didn’t expect.
IN FIFTEENTH-CENTURY AFRICAN CIVILIZATIONS, hairstyles were markers of identity. Hairstyle could indicate everything from tribe or family background to religion to social status. Elaborate hairstyles designated power and wealth. A subdued style could be a sign that you were in a state of mourning. More than that, hair could have spiritual importance. Because it’s on your head—the highest part of your body and closest to the skies—many Africans viewed it as a passageway for spirits to the soul, a way to interact with God.
That history was erased with the dawn of slavery. On slave ships, newly captured Africans were forcibly shaved in a profound act of dehumanization, an act that effectively severed the link between hair and cultural identity.
Postslavery, African American hair took on complex associations. “Good” hair was seen as anything closer to European standards of beauty. Good hair was straight and smooth. Curly, textured hair, the natural hair of many African Americans, was seen as bad. Straight hair was beautiful. Tightly curled hair was ugly. In the early 1900s, Madam C. J. Walker, an African American, became a millionaire by inventing and marketing hair care products to black women. Most famously, she improved on the design of the “hot comb,” a device for straightening hair. In the 1960s, George E. Johnson marketed the “relaxer,” a chemical product used to straighten otherwise curly African American hair. According to some estimates, the black hair care industry is worth more than one billion dollars annually.
Since postslavery days and through to modern times, debate has raged in the African American community. What does it mean to wear your hair natural versus straightened? Is straightening your hair a form of self-hatred? Does it mean you think your hair in its natural state is not beautiful? If you wear your hair naturally, are you making a political statement, claiming black power? The way African American women wear their hair has often been about much more than vanity. It’s been about more than just an individual’s notion of her own beauty.
When Natasha decides to wear hers in an Afro, it’s not because she’s aware of all this history. She does it despite Patricia Kingsley’s assertions that Afros make women look militant and unprofessional. Those assertions are rooted in fear—fear that her daughter will be harmed by a society that still so often fears blackness. Patricia also doesn’t raise her other objection: Natasha’s new hairstyle feels like a rejection. She’s been relaxing her own hair all her life. She’d relaxed Natasha’s since she was ten years old. These days when Patricia looks at her daughter, she doesn’t see as much of herself reflected back as before, and it hurts. But of course, all teenagers do this. All teenagers separate from their parents. To grow up is to grow apart.
It takes three years for Natasha’s natural hair to grow in fully. She doesn’t do it to make a political statement. In fact, she liked having her hair straight. In the future, she may make it straight again. She does it because she wants to try something new.
She does it simply because it looks beautiful.
Area Boy Is as Big an Asshole as His Brother
“Maybe you could just wait out here,” I said, like I’m ashamed of her, like I’m trying to keep her hidden. My regret is instantaneous. No waiting for a few minutes to realize the full impact of my words. Nope. Nope. Nope. Immediate and all-consuming.
And once they’re out, I can’t believe I said them. Is this what I’m made of? Nothing?
I’m a bigger asshole than Charlie.
I can’t look at her. Her eyes are on my face and I can’t look at her. I want that time machine. I want the last minute back.
I fucked up.
If it’s going to be Daniel and Natasha, then dealing with my dad’s racism is only the beginning. But she and I are just at the beginning, and I just don’t want to have to deal with him right now. I want to do the easy thing, not the right thing. I want to fall in love, with an emphasis on the falling part.
No obstacles in the way, please. No one needs to get bruised up falling in love. I just want to fall the way everybody else gets to.
I’LL BE FINE.
I’ll be fine waiting here. I understand. Really I do. But there’s part of me, the part that doesn’t believe in God or true love, that really wants him to prove me wrong about not believing in those things. I want him to choose me. Even though it’s way too early in the history of us. Even though it’s not what I would do. I want him to be as noble as he first seemed to be, but of course he’s not. Nobody is. So I let him off his own hook.
“Don’t worry so much,” I say. “I’ll wa
it.”
WHEN YOU’RE BORN, THEY (God or little aliens or whoever) should send you into the world with a bunch of free passes. A Do-Over, a Rain Check, a Take-Backsie, a Get Out of Jail Free Card. I would use my Do-Over now.
I look up at her and realize she knows exactly what I’m going through. She’ll understand if I just go inside and hand over the pouch and come back outside. Then we can just continue on our way and I won’t have to have any “Who was that girl?” conversations later with my dad. No “Once you go black” cracks from Charlie. This little weirdness will be a small hiccup on our road to greatness, to epic coupledom.
But I can’t do it. I can’t leave her out here. Partly because it’s the right thing to do. But mostly because she and I are not really at the beginning.
“Can I try that again?” I ask, deploying my Do-Over.
She smiles so big that I know that whatever happens will be worth it.
A BELL CHIMES AS SOON as we enter. It’s like every other beauty supply store I’ve ever been in. It’s small and crammed with rows of metal shelves overflowing with plastic bottles promising that their secret formula is best for your hair, skin, etc.
The cash register is right across from the entrance, so I see his father right away. Immediately I know where Daniel gets his good looks. His dad is older and balding, but he has the same sharp bone structure and perfectly symmetrical face that make Daniel so attractive. He’s busy ringing up a customer and doesn’t acknowledge Daniel at all, though I’m sure he saw us both. The customer is a boy around my age, black with short purple hair, three lip rings, one nose ring, an eyebrow ring, and too many earrings to count. I want to see what he’s buying, but it’s already bagged.
Daniel pulls the pouch from his suit pocket and starts to walk over. His dad gives him a brief glance. I’m not sure what was communicated, but Daniel stops moving and sighs.
“You need to go to the bathroom or anything?” he asks. “There’s one in the back.”
I shake my head. He strangles the pouch with his hands.
“Well, this is it. This is the store.”
“Want to show me around?” I ask to help distract him.
“Not much to see. First three aisles are for hair. Shampoo, conditioner, extensions, dyes, lots of chemical things I don’t understand. Aisle three is makeup. Aisle four is equipment.”
He glances at his dad, but he’s still busy.
“Do you need something?” he asks.
I touch my hair. “No, I—”
“I didn’t mean a product. We have a fridge in the back with soda and stuff.”
“Sure,” I say. I like the idea of seeing behind the scenes.
We walk down the hair dye aisle. All the boxes feature broadly smiling women with the most perfectly colored and styled hair. It’s not hair dye being sold in these bottles, it’s happiness.
I stop in front of a group of boxes with brightly colored dyes and pick up a pink one. There’s a very small, secret, impractical part of me that’s always wanted pink hair.
It takes Daniel a few seconds to realize that I’ve stopped walking.
“Pink?” he asks, when he sees the box in my hand.
I wiggle it at him. “Why not?”
“Doesn’t seem like your style.”
Of course he’s completely right, but I hate that he thinks so. Am I too predictable and boring? I think back to the boy I saw when we entered the store. I bet he keeps everyone guessing.
“Shows how much you know,” I say, and pat my hair. His eyes follow my hand, and now I’m really self-conscious and hoping he’s not going to ask to touch my hair or a bunch of dumb questions about it. Not that I don’t want him to touch my hair, because I do—just not as a curiosity.
“I think you would look beautiful with a giant pink Afro,” he says.
Sincerity is sexy, and my cynical heart notices.
“The whole thing wouldn’t be pink. Maybe just the ends.”
He reaches for the box, so now we’re both holding it and facing each other in an aisle that really only has enough space for one.
“It would look like strawberry frosting,” he says. With his other hand he pulls a few strands of my hair through his fingers, and I find that I don’t mind, not one little bit.
“Oh, look. My. Little. Brother is here,” says a voice from the end of the aisle. Daniel jerks his hand from my hair. We both let go of the dye at the same time, and the box clatters to the floor. Daniel bends to pick it up. I turn to face our interloper.
He’s taller and broader than Daniel. On his face, the family bone structure seems even sharper. He rests the broom he was holding against a shelf and saunters down the aisle toward us. His wide, dark eyes are filled with curiosity and a kind of mischievous glee.
I’m not sure I like him.
Daniel stands up and hands the dye back to me.
“What’s up, Charlie?” he asks.
“The. Sky. Is. Up. Little brother,” says Charlie. I get the feeling he’s been using that phrase that same way for all their lives. He’s looking at me as he says it, and his face is more sneer than smile.
“Who. Is. This?” he asks, still only looking at me.
Next to me, Daniel takes a deep breath and readies himself to say something, but I jump in.
“I’m Natasha.” He stares at me as if there must be more to say. “A friend of your brother’s,” I continue.
“Oh, I thought maybe he’d caught a shoplifting customer.” His face is a parody of innocence. “We get a lot of those in a store like this.” His eyes are laughing and mean. “I’m sure you understand.”
I definitely don’t like him.
“Jesus Christ, Charlie,” Daniel says. He takes a step toward Charlie but I grab his hand. He stops and links his fingers with mine and squeezes.
Charlie makes a big show of looking down at our joined hands and then back up at us.
“Is this what I think it is? Is it looooove, Little. Brother?” He claps his hands together with a loud smack and does a laughing two-step dance.
“This. Is. Great. Yes. You know what this means, don’t you? All the heat will be off me. When the ’rents find out about this, I’ll be a Boy Scout again. Fuck academic probation.”
He’s laughing loudly now and rubbing his palms together, like a villain detailing his plans for world domination.
“Wow. You’re an asshole,” I say, unable to help myself.
He smiles as if I’ve paid him a compliment. But the smile doesn’t last long.
He looks at our hands again and then at Daniel. “You’re such a punk,” he says. “Where are you gonna go with this?”
I squeeze Daniel’s hand tighter and pull it to my side. I want to prove Charlie wrong. “Do your thing and let’s get out of here,” I say.
He nods, and we turn away—and walk right into his father. I pull my hand from his at the same time he’s letting mine go, but it’s too late. His father’s already seen us.
Giant Bag of Dicks Masquerades as Teenage Boy, Fools Exactly No One
Charlie is a giant bag of dicks that I’d like to light on fire. I want to hit him in his perfectly smug face. It’s not a new emotion for me, since I’ve wanted to do it since I was ten, but this time he’s finally gone too far. I’m thinking how good it will feel to break my hand on his face, but I’m also focused on the feel of Natasha’s hand in mine.
I need to get her out of here before my family derails my life just as it’s getting started.
“What are you doing?” my father asks in Korean.
I decide to ignore the question he’s really asking. Instead, I hold out the pouch for him to take.
“Mom said I had to bring you this.” I say it in English so Natasha doesn’t think we’re talking about her.
Charlie sidles up next me. “Want me to help translate for your friend?” he asks.
He overemphasizes friend. Because being a dick on fire is Charlie’s raison d’être.
My dad gives him a hard look. “I
thought you don’t understand Korean,” he says to Charlie.
Charlie shrugs. “I get by.” Not even my dad’s disapproval can stop him from enjoying himself at my expense.
“Is that why you fail out of Harvard? You only get by?” This part he says in Korean because the last thing my dad would want to do is air our dirty laundry in front of a miguk saram. An American.
Charlie doesn’t give a crap and translates anyway, but he’s smiling a little less. “Don’t worry,” he says to Natasha. “He’s not talking about you. Not yet. He’s just calling me stupid.”
Dad’s face goes completely blank, so I know he’s really angry now. Charlie’s got him trapped. Anything he says Charlie will translate, and my dad’s sense of propriety can’t allow that to happen. Instead, he turns into Deferential Store Owner like I’ve seen him do a million times to a million customers.
“You want something before you leave?” he asks Natasha. He clasps his hands, half bends at the waist, and smiles his best customer-service smile.
“No, thank you, Mr.—” She stops because she doesn’t know my last name.
My dad doesn’t answer.
“Yes. Yes. You friend of Daniel’s. Take anything you want.” This is an accident in progress, but I don’t know how to stop it. He pats at his pockets until he finds his glasses and peers at the bottles on the shelf.
“Not this aisle,” he mutters. “Come with me.”
Maybe if we just go along this will all be over quickly. Natasha and I follow him helplessly while Charlie laughs.
My dad finds what he’s looking for one aisle over. “Here. Relaxer for your hair.” He pulls a big black and white tub from a shelf and hands it to Natasha.
“Relaxer,” he says again. “Make your hair not so big.”
How was I born into this family and how can I get out of it?