A Day at The Beauty Supply
I.
Mr. Park watches from his seat at the storefront. Images of the aisles flicker in a 3x3 grid on his screen. The cameras were installed last year after six boxes of Wet Tresses Kanekalon braiding hair and X-pression Kinky Twists went missing from the shelves. He never minded the small things going missing: black castor oil, setting foam, styler gel… He’d even take a few items now and then, sneaking a comb or two into bags; a thank you for being loyal customers.
It was his daughter’s idea to get the cameras.
“They’re taking advantage of you, Appa. This is a business, not a charity.” She also had the cases installed, plastic with locks to protect the real virgin hair behind the counter. No more touching. “They touch when they can pay.”
Mr. Park watches on the screen as a young girl in aisle 3 pulls the barcodes off bottles of deep conditioner. She puts them in her purse. He decides not to tell his daughter; besides, her basket is still pretty full.
When she comes to the counter, he smiles. When his daughter rings her up, he slips a comb in her bag, a red one to match her hair.
II.
A conversation in aisle 5.
“I heard that stuff causes cancer.”
“Shut up, no it doesn’t.”
“Does too. Got the same shit as cigarettes in it.”
“How they still selling it if it cause cancer?”
“You think they care if a bunch of Black women get cancer?”
“There must be laws or something.”
“Girl, you know these white folk don’t care. If it makes money they gonna sell it. You need to shop Black-owned.”
“The Black-owned shit is expensive. They want $15 for this conditioner.”
“It’s organic.”
“I’ve never heard of no plant called sorbitan ses… sesquioleate.”
“Whatever, girl. You be cheap if you want to…”
“I’m not trying to go broke today.”
“I’d rather be broke and cancer-free, but that’s me.”
“Exactly, that’s you. Go get me some leave-in lotion.”
III.
Did she want the Nicki, the Queen Bey, or the Megan? The Nicki is longer than she is tall, jet black, bone-straight, and dragging on the floor. It’s giving mermaid fantasy, but not prom queen.
The Queen Bey is a honey blonde dream, wavy curls that billow at her shoulders, but Momma says it makes her look like somebody’s auntie. The Megan is cute, a lace front with a high ponytail. She can see it appealing to the white girls or Ariana wannabes. Momma says it looks like a horse’s ass glued to her head.
The saleswoman suggests a sew-in, a few wefts she can style and press. All the hot girls at school have sew-ins. The hottest have that real virgin hair, plucked straight from scalps in Brazil. She shows her momma the case behind the counter.
“I’m not breaking the bank for your peanut head. We just need you looking prom queen cute.” Momma asks the saleswoman for the cheap stuff. She settles on a pack of silky wefts, something they can curl a bit without melting. “We’re gonna have your little head looking cute.” Momma tells the saleswoman about prom and homecoming queen.
She never told Momma that she was nominated as a joke, that no matter the hairstyle she will be no one’s queen.
IV.
Every day I watch these basic-bitch bobs come off the shelf. Sitting pretty on the heads of these bougie-ass bitches, nurses and teachers trying to look “professional.” Sometimes they mix it up and go with the Beyoncé honey blonde or a medium brown. Maybe they’ll try one with a little bit of curl, but it’s always the black ones getting snatched up first. Basic-bitch black bobs swinging out the door. I was made to stand out, hot pink and glossy with a hint of purple underneath. I’m real cute. I’m just waiting for the right one. She’s gotta be a bad bitch to rock with me. My girl will wear me with matching outfits, hot pink sets with matching pleasers. She’ll even dye her brows to go with me. That’s my type. Until then I’m just sitting pretty and waiting my turn. I’ll be honest, I am getting tired though. This dust is starting to dull my shine.
V.
A conversation in aisle 1.
“What’s the difference between the guys’ conditioner and the women’s?”
“Scents.”
“Scents?”
“Yeah. Got roses and shit up in it. That’s why they smell so good.”
“Why can’t we have roses?”
“I don’t know, man. We got shit that smells like cool ice, whatever the fuck that is.”
“Man, ice don’t have a smell!”
“That’s what I’m saying! Just smells like blue.”
“I might try this women’s shit. Got all the same stuff in it. I wanna smell sweet.”
“Go for it man. I won’t say nothing.”
“Hold up, this is two dollars more.”
“It’s those scents, man.”
VI.
Testimonies in aisle 2.
Eco Styler Gel. Shine ‘n Jam. Edgewax. Gorilla Snot. Got2b Glued. They are labeled with promises of control. Each jar whispers: I can tame you. I can tame those wild edges twisting toward the sky. I can make them young again, make them “baby,” swirled in beautiful ringlets on your brow. I can keep your kitchen clean. Put me on your eyebrows and I can make you fierce. You only need a dime-size of me—I go a long way. Smooth me between your palms. Let me touch you. Let me lock in your curls. Let me give you ponytail. Let me slick. Let me shine. Let me give you a sickening crown. You deserve it, Queen. Wouldn’t it be nice to have one part of your life neat and tidy?
They are only $5.99. What a bargain for a new life. Take one. Take another and another and another.
VII.
Bree gives the owner and his daughter a smile. He always waves. The daughter never does.
“Why these stores always have Chinese people working them?” asks D. He eyes the old man at the counter, his face buried in the TV screen to the side.
“I think he’s Korean.” Bree pushes her man out the way. Tea tree oil is on sale.
“Same thing.”
“Different countries, but whatever…”
“You know what I’m saying. We need to be caring for our own. Black people running Black business.” He holds his ankh aloft like a cross.
“I don’t want to hear your Hotep shit right now.”
D takes every chance to preach the gospel of Black families, the strength of the Black man, and sacredness of the Black woman—giver of life and foundation of the home. One o’clock on a Saturday at The Beauty Supply is as good a time as any.
“You call it Hotep shit, but it’s true. You can’t demean the truth, my queen.”
Bree used to like when he called her that, but now she’d happily relinquish her throne. The honorific was always colored with a patronizing tone. What’s for dinner, my queen? Put some decent clothes on, my queen.
“Go get your queen some styler gel, please. Aisle 2. Thank you, King.” She punctuates her request with an eye roll.
Bree watches him disappear down the aisle. How long will it take him to come back? A few seconds? A minute? Could she get to the counter and check out by then? Leave him stranded with the old man and a jar of flaxseed gel?
She feels for the car key in her pocket. Nothing. He drove.
The basket rattles.
“Got me a sponge brush, too,” says D. He tosses it in with the gel.
Bree hands her basket to the old man at the counter. He bags her items while his daughter rings them up. She gives him another smile. He hands her the bag with a nod. Wedged between her purchases Bree sees a new rattail comb, tortoise shell like her glasses—a gift fit for a queen.
The daughter ushers them away before she can say thanks; they are holding up the line.
“See, rude-ass Chinese pushing us out like we ain’t shit. Wouldn’t have nothing if it weren’t for us. That’s why we need sisters and brothers running these places.” D rambles out the door.
Bree runs her thumb over the teeth of her new comb. It makes a clicking sound like a stick against a fence, a sound loud enough to drown him out. She runs her thumb over the teeth. Over the teeth. Over the teeth.
Brianna Johnson’s (@Yellohcard) stories have appeared in Cosmonauts Avenue, Gigantic Sequins, The Molotov Cocktail, Wigleaf, Kenyon Review, Obsidian: Literature & Arts, and elsewhere. An alum of the Tin House Summer Workshop, she is a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee with work longlisted for the Wigleaf Top 50. An MFA graduate from The University of Tampa, she teaches college English in Orlando, FL