Every summer I go bald. Some time around now every year my edges start to fade like memories of a lover who once loved me. It’s always at the front of my head too. Like I don’t look bald enough by pulling my hair back. Yes, I know pulling my hair back is what’s wearing on my edges, but how can I help it?
A few years ago I stopped putting a relaxer in my hair and it’s been untameable by the common woman ever since. My hair requires a professional, honey! My carpal tunnel having plus I’m lazy self is no match for the curly, mostly tangled amazon jungle that lives inside my bun. There was a time when my husband would wash and blowdry it for me. Even he with his strong arms and natural mission to conquer was whopped by the challenge. My mom’s suggestion is that I wear it curly. Sure curly and cute is the way it starts out, but no matter what product I’ve used, the curls swell to frizz and I get self conscious. I feel like a chia pet. I’m not always the confident big mouth I appear to be.
So it’s like, “P, why don’t you just go to the salon and get your hair done?” And I’m like, “Yeah, why don’t I?” So I go get it done and it’s not until after I’m leaving the salon giving Beyonce’s weave fierce competition that I’m reminded it’s summer! I sweat in my scalp before I know it’s hot. So $40 down the drain as I’m frizzy by the time I reach my car. My money is too hard to come by to pay for ten minute hair. Wigs itch me and everyone I know who can braid and charge an affordable price, stop answering calls when I request services. There was this one woman, though, who knew how to hook me up. I don’t know if I just went to her on the right day or if she prayed in a candlelit room on days I went to her, asking God to annoint her to make her way through the wavy forest. The only was that she tricked me into attending a presentaion for a marketing pyramid scheme and me and my mane stopped trusting her. My friend, “Mona,” tried to tell me the one thing didn’t have to do with the other, but I’m funny or fussy that way.
Pulling my hair in a bun is pretty much the extent of my hair skills. It’s always been that way. It’s like my calling card. You see a lopsided bun clipped to the top of someone’s head, “Oh look that must be P.” But the bun really has no love for me. It can’t just let me get through the summer. Water and gel can take me but so far, so balding it is. Thank goodness September is near. I can return to the hole in the wall salon on Market Street and emerge as a goddess. In the meantime, I’ll be in my own candlelit room praying for the strength of my edges.