Four Stories About Hair

By Abiola Oni

ONE

It’s nighttime but the barbershop is bright beneath strip lighting. She is standing in the doorway having opened the door to several pairs of eyes now boring holes in her face, breasts and legs.

Haircut.

She addresses everyone, unsure anyone will reply. Her throat feels rough. The banter resumes and the barber with the grey ‘fro hawk points to a battered leather sofa. It’s not long before she’s beckoned.

Sister

She sits in his chair and he swivels her around to face the mirror.

Shave everything off.

His gold tooth twinkles.

As Jah intend.

She squeezes her eyes shut as the razor vibrates against the nooks of her skull.

When she gets home later, her mum will say she looks like a slave. She will smile at her reflection, smoothening the sleeping baby hairs that will blossom into an unruly afro.

TWO

Oh na na, what’s your name?

That was the first thing he ever said to her. It was summer 2010 and, whilst the song was all the radio stations played, he’d stereotyped her without realising. He later apologised.

And now, here they are, legs entangled on her little bed in Harlesden. His blonde hair is flat against his forehead with sweat. She ruffles it. He reaches up to touch hers. She ducks. His lips stretch into a pained smile. She pauses, then lifts his fingers to the centre parting from which long grade A Brazilian hair falls and frames her round face. She guides his fingers along the hem of the hair, over the thread keeping them attached to her cornrowed hair underneath. When she lets go of his fingers, they continue to explore her head. Then he cups her face with both hands and draws her in for a kiss.

She sighs. Her parents will never accept someone who doesn’t have an oríkì.

THREE

They kick open your door and rip the chain from its frame. It’s Lola and the letting agent. She says she has been ringing your phone for days. You say so what. He says he banged your door for hours. You shrug. They look at each other. You want them to go away. Lola asks if you’ve been eating. You say you’re not hungry. She asks when you last showered. You tell her to fuck off. The letting agent says he will have to inform your landlord about the condition of the flat. You don’t even look at him. Lola turns around and begins to sob. She retrieves a mirror from your room. She says LOOK and thrusts it in your face. You have a rash on your left cheek, your lips are cracked, crusties line your eyes. But you don’t see any of that. You can’t take your eyes off your knotted hair.

FOUR

I found a grey pube today. I was on the toilet at work and there it was, sticking straight out, refusing to be one with the neat strip of hair that resembled a chin goatee. I curled forward and gave it a good prod. It was wiry and strong, like what my mum used to thread my hair with when I was a child.

It’s a significant discovery, this little grey pube. But, unlike when my hairstylist suggested that maybe it was time for a bob, I won’t let this little fucker ruin my day. Instead, I will go to the sauna and stare at fannies much saggier than mine. That always cheers me up like slow gin in my morning coffee. Then I will see Maria and annihilate all hairs south of my navel.

So I log it in my book of firsts and carry on with my day.