Sharp Curves Ahead
by Marie Anderson
“For Christmas,” Lottie said to her husband, “I want us to start trying. I want to throw out my diaphragm and foam.”
Charles kept his eyes on the snow-covered highway, but Lottie saw his hands tighten on the steering wheel, his knuckles popping white.
“Get back down to your sexy fighting weight,” he said. “And then we can talk about making babies. Calories in. Calories out. Simple as that.”
Lottie sighed, looked out the window at the waves churning Lake Michigan. Thanksgiving was not the day to start a diet. She was 29. They’d been married six years.
A few hours later, sitting around the long table in her in-laws’ dining room, her mouth full of pumpkin pie (her second piece) homemade by her mother-in-law’s live-in housekeeper, Charles whispered in Lottie’s ear, “Ten pounds. Just 10 pounds. That’s what I want for Christmas from you.”
After Thanksgiving, she tried. She gave up Starbucks lattes and Oreo cookies and at work swapped salads for her usual grilled cheese sandwiches from her company’s cafeteria. But two days before Christmas, her curves were still strong, and the scale still stubbornly showed 145 pounds on her five-foot-five frame. So, she rushed into the Burberry store on Michigan Avenue and paid $400 for a tan trench coat for Charles.
Charles kept his eyes on the snow-covered highway, but Lottie saw his hands tighten on the steering wheel, his knuckles popping white.
“Get back down to your sexy fighting weight,” he said. “And then we can talk about making babies. Calories in. Calories out. Simple as that.”
Lottie sighed, looked out the window at the waves churning Lake Michigan. Thanksgiving was not the day to start a diet. She was 29. They’d been married six years.
A few hours later, sitting around the long table in her in-laws’ dining room, her mouth full of pumpkin pie (her second piece) homemade by her mother-in-law’s live-in housekeeper, Charles whispered in Lottie’s ear, “Ten pounds. Just 10 pounds. That’s what I want for Christmas from you.”
After Thanksgiving, she tried. She gave up Starbucks lattes and Oreo cookies and at work swapped salads for her usual grilled cheese sandwiches from her company’s cafeteria. But two days before Christmas, her curves were still strong, and the scale still stubbornly showed 145 pounds on her five-foot-five frame. So, she rushed into the Burberry store on Michigan Avenue and paid $400 for a tan trench coat for Charles.
On Christmas morning, he handed her a little stuffed dog, white, tied with a red ribbon. Attached to the ribbon, an envelope.
Lottie felt hopeful butterflies flutter in her stomach. A handwritten note? Telling her that yes, toss the foam? Ditch the diaphragm? Let’s make a baby?
She smiled at Charles, trembled her fingers under the envelope’s flap.
Inside was a gift certificate, a $400 certificate to Shear Magic.
“You’ll love this salon,” Charles said. The coat she’d given him puddled at his feet. He hadn’t tried it on.
“Ali suggested it,” Charles said. “She says it’s the only place in Chicago that specializes in the Bio Ionic method of thermal hair retexturizing.” He refolded the Burberry coat and put it back in the box under the Christmas tree.
“Your secretary,” Lottie murmured.
“No,” Charles said. “Not since summer. Didn’t I tell you? Ali upgraded. She got her paralegal certification in September.”
“Good on her,” Lottie said, despite annoyance stinging like a wasp.
Ali was like most of the support staff hired by Charles’s law firm. She was slim everywhere but her bosom. She was young, smart, and blonde, her brown eyes soft as a cow’s, and her long hair straight and shiny as a searchlight.
Lottie had met Ali at various law firm functions over the past year. Ali was always polite Their last encounter, she’d looked Lottie right in the eye and praised. “If I wasn’t so worried about skin cancer, I’d be joining you at the tanning salons.”
Charles, approaching with chardonnays for Lottie and Ali, chuckled. “You can’t blame tanning salons for my wife’s color,” he said.
“Blame?” Lottie murmured, but Charles and Ali had both turned away to greet a senior partner.
It was true. Her color didn’t come from tanning salons.
But Charles was blaming her for that?
Lottie felt hopeful butterflies flutter in her stomach. A handwritten note? Telling her that yes, toss the foam? Ditch the diaphragm? Let’s make a baby?
She smiled at Charles, trembled her fingers under the envelope’s flap.
Inside was a gift certificate, a $400 certificate to Shear Magic.
“You’ll love this salon,” Charles said. The coat she’d given him puddled at his feet. He hadn’t tried it on.
“Ali suggested it,” Charles said. “She says it’s the only place in Chicago that specializes in the Bio Ionic method of thermal hair retexturizing.” He refolded the Burberry coat and put it back in the box under the Christmas tree.
“Your secretary,” Lottie murmured.
“No,” Charles said. “Not since summer. Didn’t I tell you? Ali upgraded. She got her paralegal certification in September.”
“Good on her,” Lottie said, despite annoyance stinging like a wasp.
Ali was like most of the support staff hired by Charles’s law firm. She was slim everywhere but her bosom. She was young, smart, and blonde, her brown eyes soft as a cow’s, and her long hair straight and shiny as a searchlight.
Lottie had met Ali at various law firm functions over the past year. Ali was always polite Their last encounter, she’d looked Lottie right in the eye and praised. “If I wasn’t so worried about skin cancer, I’d be joining you at the tanning salons.”
Charles, approaching with chardonnays for Lottie and Ali, chuckled. “You can’t blame tanning salons for my wife’s color,” he said.
“Blame?” Lottie murmured, but Charles and Ali had both turned away to greet a senior partner.
It was true. Her color didn’t come from tanning salons.
But Charles was blaming her for that?
Six years earlier, driving from Chicago to Vegas for their honeymoon, she and Charles had stopped to visit her grandma in a Nebraska nursing home.
It was Charles’s first time meeting her maternal grandmother. Photos filled one wall of her grandmother’s tiny room.
Charles looked at the largest photo: Lottie’s grandma, a young bride standing next to a seated, mustached man wearing an ill-fitting tuxedo.
“Her second husband?” Charles whispered to Lottie.
Lottie frowned. “No. Why would you think that?”
“Was your mom adopted?” he asked.
Lottie felt her frown deepen. “No. Why would you think that?”
“He’s black.”
Lottie shrugged. “Yeah, my mom’s dad was part black.”
“You never said.”
“I never thought to say. I mean, does that matter to you?”
“No, of course not.”
It was Charles’s first time meeting her maternal grandmother. Photos filled one wall of her grandmother’s tiny room.
Charles looked at the largest photo: Lottie’s grandma, a young bride standing next to a seated, mustached man wearing an ill-fitting tuxedo.
“Her second husband?” Charles whispered to Lottie.
Lottie frowned. “No. Why would you think that?”
“Was your mom adopted?” he asked.
Lottie felt her frown deepen. “No. Why would you think that?”
“He’s black.”
Lottie shrugged. “Yeah, my mom’s dad was part black.”
“You never said.”
“I never thought to say. I mean, does that matter to you?”
“No, of course not.”
Now Lottie stared at the gift certificate for Shear Magic. “The Bio Ionic method of thermal hair retexturizing?” she echoed.
“You’re always needing to spend so much time with your hair iron,” Charles said. “Straightening all the kinks out of your hair. You won’t need to do that anymore to keep your hair straight. And the extra time you’ll gain, you could use to walk to work. Shrink those curves a little faster.”
Lottie looked at their Christmas tree instead of Charles. The tree was metallic white. Red glass apples hung from every branch. It filled the bay window in their living room, blocking her view of the elevated tracks across the street and a Montessori school, pre-K through grade four.
It was the condo’s price, high ceilings, and maple floors that had appealed to Charles. But it was the school that had attracted Lottie. She’d envisioned skipping across the street, still in pajamas, coffee in hand, escorting their child to class.
“You’re always needing to spend so much time with your hair iron,” Charles said. “Straightening all the kinks out of your hair. You won’t need to do that anymore to keep your hair straight. And the extra time you’ll gain, you could use to walk to work. Shrink those curves a little faster.”
Lottie looked at their Christmas tree instead of Charles. The tree was metallic white. Red glass apples hung from every branch. It filled the bay window in their living room, blocking her view of the elevated tracks across the street and a Montessori school, pre-K through grade four.
It was the condo’s price, high ceilings, and maple floors that had appealed to Charles. But it was the school that had attracted Lottie. She’d envisioned skipping across the street, still in pajamas, coffee in hand, escorting their child to class.
Charles made the appointment for her.
“I got you in on Monday. You’ll just have to leave work a few hours early. They had a last-minute cancellation. Otherwise, the next earliest appointment is not until March! Talk about timing! You’ll have your hair fixed in time for New Year’s Eve!”
“Timing certainly is everything,” Lottie agreed. She was thinking of her basal body temperature charts which tracked ovulation. She was hoping that with soon-to-be (hopefully) shrunken curves, Charles would agree to start baby-making.
“I got you in on Monday. You’ll just have to leave work a few hours early. They had a last-minute cancellation. Otherwise, the next earliest appointment is not until March! Talk about timing! You’ll have your hair fixed in time for New Year’s Eve!”
“Timing certainly is everything,” Lottie agreed. She was thinking of her basal body temperature charts which tracked ovulation. She was hoping that with soon-to-be (hopefully) shrunken curves, Charles would agree to start baby-making.
Snow-lined the sidewalks and curbs in black-crusted heaps. The fresh snow Charles and Lottie had stridden through after Midnight Mass three days earlier now lumped ugly as dirty laundry. Wind pushed against Lottie, tangling her hair.
She hadn’t bothered subduing her wild hair before work—after work it’d be bio-ionicized into perfection. Charles was right. She’d had more time this morning, time to walk now through icy muck, 16 blocks to her Fund Office.
Her stomach rumbled. Breakfast had been only an obedient bowl of oatmeal sprinkled with four docile raisins. She strode past the neighborhood bakery without pausing to admire the window display of muffins and cookies. Her nose dripped. She unzipped her coat pockets, reached for a tissue, found only the little stuffed dog Charles had tied to her Shear Magic certificate. She’d perch the pup on her work desk.
“Excuse me, miss?”
A black woman called from the curb.
“You got a minute?"
The woman stood by the open trunk of a dirty white Cadillac. Its trunk overflowed with boxes of peanuts, candy, cigarettes, gum. Through the car’s broken back window, Lottie saw cages, the kind pet stores use to confine dogs or cats.
“Actually,” Lottie said. “I’m kinda in a hurry. I have to get to work.”
“You be passing that building? The high rise one?” The woman pointed to a ten-story brownish crumbling rectangle a half-block ahead. Like a wart on an otherwise smooth face, the building blemished the rest of the block: rehabbed gray stones secure behind wrought iron fencing, occupied by mostly white, high-earning, child-free, couples.
Chicago’s north side neighborhoods were that way: poverty next to posh. The poor displaced when the mayor demolished the public housing high rises and moved the residents into scattered site “Section Eight” housing in solid neighborhoods, giving them federal vouchers for rent.
“Fucking Section Eighters,” Charles often complained.
“I’m waiting on my girl, see,” the woman continued. “She had to run in quick, use the facilities, you know, but I been waiting a while now. She got some issues with me right now, you know, so I expect she probably be taking her time and what not while I’m waitin’ on her out here. So, if you see a little girl in a red snowsuit inside that building? Got a dog on a leash? You tell her go on out help her mama carry in this stuff. You do that for me?”
Lottie nodded and hurried away.
She stopped at the building, did indeed see through glass doors a little girl. Chubby, maybe ten, her hair corn rowed and festooned with red and green beads. She held a leash attached to a bull terrier.
A gray-haired black man was patting the girl’s shoulder. A priest’s collar circled his neck.
The girl was crying.
Lottie looked back at the woman. She was leaning against her car, guarding her treasures, while here, inside this Section Eight building, her little girl was being, what? Comforted? Hit on by some pervert priest?
Lottie plunged through the doors, squished her boots across a gray rubber floor. Brown water stains splotched the low ceiling. Pine scented the air. A fat green Christmas tree filled a corner, strung with paper snowflakes and photos of smiling children, all black. Against the far wall, multicolored beads covered a doorway. Over the door, a sign:
She hadn’t bothered subduing her wild hair before work—after work it’d be bio-ionicized into perfection. Charles was right. She’d had more time this morning, time to walk now through icy muck, 16 blocks to her Fund Office.
Her stomach rumbled. Breakfast had been only an obedient bowl of oatmeal sprinkled with four docile raisins. She strode past the neighborhood bakery without pausing to admire the window display of muffins and cookies. Her nose dripped. She unzipped her coat pockets, reached for a tissue, found only the little stuffed dog Charles had tied to her Shear Magic certificate. She’d perch the pup on her work desk.
“Excuse me, miss?”
A black woman called from the curb.
“You got a minute?"
The woman stood by the open trunk of a dirty white Cadillac. Its trunk overflowed with boxes of peanuts, candy, cigarettes, gum. Through the car’s broken back window, Lottie saw cages, the kind pet stores use to confine dogs or cats.
“Actually,” Lottie said. “I’m kinda in a hurry. I have to get to work.”
“You be passing that building? The high rise one?” The woman pointed to a ten-story brownish crumbling rectangle a half-block ahead. Like a wart on an otherwise smooth face, the building blemished the rest of the block: rehabbed gray stones secure behind wrought iron fencing, occupied by mostly white, high-earning, child-free, couples.
Chicago’s north side neighborhoods were that way: poverty next to posh. The poor displaced when the mayor demolished the public housing high rises and moved the residents into scattered site “Section Eight” housing in solid neighborhoods, giving them federal vouchers for rent.
“Fucking Section Eighters,” Charles often complained.
“I’m waiting on my girl, see,” the woman continued. “She had to run in quick, use the facilities, you know, but I been waiting a while now. She got some issues with me right now, you know, so I expect she probably be taking her time and what not while I’m waitin’ on her out here. So, if you see a little girl in a red snowsuit inside that building? Got a dog on a leash? You tell her go on out help her mama carry in this stuff. You do that for me?”
Lottie nodded and hurried away.
She stopped at the building, did indeed see through glass doors a little girl. Chubby, maybe ten, her hair corn rowed and festooned with red and green beads. She held a leash attached to a bull terrier.
A gray-haired black man was patting the girl’s shoulder. A priest’s collar circled his neck.
The girl was crying.
Lottie looked back at the woman. She was leaning against her car, guarding her treasures, while here, inside this Section Eight building, her little girl was being, what? Comforted? Hit on by some pervert priest?
Lottie plunged through the doors, squished her boots across a gray rubber floor. Brown water stains splotched the low ceiling. Pine scented the air. A fat green Christmas tree filled a corner, strung with paper snowflakes and photos of smiling children, all black. Against the far wall, multicolored beads covered a doorway. Over the door, a sign:
Prayer Warriors Salvation Church
The Reverend Dr. Charles Dwight Raven, Pastor
Services Daily
The Reverend Dr. Charles Dwight Raven, Pastor
Services Daily
“Excuse me!” Lottie approached the girl and the man—the Reverend Raven? Behind the man, a wheel-chaired woman trembled. Drool leaked from her mouth.
“Good morning, sister.” The man smiled. A gold tooth glinted.
The dog sniffed Lottie’s boots. It had no ears that Lottie could see. A red scar pimpled its chest.
“Honey, your mom is waiting for you. She needs you to help carry stuff in?”
The girl burst into fresh tears and pressed her face into the man’s white shirt.
“Ah, her mom.” The man shook his head. “O’sheron is worried for her dog. Last night she lost the brother of this dog.”
Over the girl’s head, he extended his hand. “I am the Reverend Dr. Raven.”
His hand swallowed Lottie’s.
“My wife, Serene.” He nodded at the wheel-chaired woman.
The woman managed a smile. She whispered something unintelligible.
“Serene suffered a stroke,” the Reverend said. “You must be one of our new residents? I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before.”
O’sheron emerged from the Reverend’s hug. She looked at Lottie.
“Me? Oh, no. No. I don’t live here. I was just passing by on my way to work. I don’t live here.” Lottie felt her cheeks flame.
The Reverend nodded. Behind him, his wife was either laughing or having a seizure. The Reverend turned, lifted a folded towel from his wife’s lap, and gently blotted drool from her chin.
“I’m sorry you lost your other dog,” Lottie said to O’sheron. Would Charles take care me of I suffered a stroke? she wondered.
The little girl sniffed. “She said it be a accident. She said.” Fresh tears bubbled.
Lottie found herself offering her floppy stuffed puppy. “Well, here you go. I hope you find the dog you lost.”
O’sheron’s eyes widened. A dimple winked. “Thanks!” She cradled the stuffed dog in her palm. “He cute. He one of those mini-flops.” She looked at the Reverend. “They hard to get.”
The Reverend smiled at Lottie. Something fluttered in her throat. “Bless you, young sister, who was just passing by. Bless you.”
Lottie patted O’sheron’s shoulder. “Sure. No problem. I can tell my little pup will have a good home with you, honey.”
Lottie turned to leave, but then remembered the mother. “Oh! But now maybe you better head out and help your mom?”
To Lottie’s surprise, the little girl shook her head so hard her beaded hair whirled and clacked across her face. Fresh tears brimmed her eyes.
The Reverend motioned Lottie to follow him to the front door. “I think we will not worry about helping the mother right now,” he said. He leaned down so that his face was nearly level with hers. His breath smelled like sweet oranges. “Her business is dog fights. So we will not worry about helping her just now.”
“Dog fights?”
A phone rang. The Reverend pulled a cell from his pocket. He looked at the screen, frowned. “I am sorry, sister, this is a call I have to take. Thank you for your kindness to O’sheron.”
Lottie nodded and went outside. She looked back at the woman, still leaning against her car, now smoking a cigarette. The woman waved and shouted. “You find her?”
Lottie shrugged, lifted her arms in a “sorry” gesture, and walked on. The woman hollered, her voice screeching outrage.
Lottie turned the corner, wind whipping her hair around her face. For a moment, all she could see was coarse brown hair. She could no longer hear the woman. She recalled the Reverend’s voice, so deep. A beautiful voice.
Sister, he’d called her.
“Good morning, sister.” The man smiled. A gold tooth glinted.
The dog sniffed Lottie’s boots. It had no ears that Lottie could see. A red scar pimpled its chest.
“Honey, your mom is waiting for you. She needs you to help carry stuff in?”
The girl burst into fresh tears and pressed her face into the man’s white shirt.
“Ah, her mom.” The man shook his head. “O’sheron is worried for her dog. Last night she lost the brother of this dog.”
Over the girl’s head, he extended his hand. “I am the Reverend Dr. Raven.”
His hand swallowed Lottie’s.
“My wife, Serene.” He nodded at the wheel-chaired woman.
The woman managed a smile. She whispered something unintelligible.
“Serene suffered a stroke,” the Reverend said. “You must be one of our new residents? I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before.”
O’sheron emerged from the Reverend’s hug. She looked at Lottie.
“Me? Oh, no. No. I don’t live here. I was just passing by on my way to work. I don’t live here.” Lottie felt her cheeks flame.
The Reverend nodded. Behind him, his wife was either laughing or having a seizure. The Reverend turned, lifted a folded towel from his wife’s lap, and gently blotted drool from her chin.
“I’m sorry you lost your other dog,” Lottie said to O’sheron. Would Charles take care me of I suffered a stroke? she wondered.
The little girl sniffed. “She said it be a accident. She said.” Fresh tears bubbled.
Lottie found herself offering her floppy stuffed puppy. “Well, here you go. I hope you find the dog you lost.”
O’sheron’s eyes widened. A dimple winked. “Thanks!” She cradled the stuffed dog in her palm. “He cute. He one of those mini-flops.” She looked at the Reverend. “They hard to get.”
The Reverend smiled at Lottie. Something fluttered in her throat. “Bless you, young sister, who was just passing by. Bless you.”
Lottie patted O’sheron’s shoulder. “Sure. No problem. I can tell my little pup will have a good home with you, honey.”
Lottie turned to leave, but then remembered the mother. “Oh! But now maybe you better head out and help your mom?”
To Lottie’s surprise, the little girl shook her head so hard her beaded hair whirled and clacked across her face. Fresh tears brimmed her eyes.
The Reverend motioned Lottie to follow him to the front door. “I think we will not worry about helping the mother right now,” he said. He leaned down so that his face was nearly level with hers. His breath smelled like sweet oranges. “Her business is dog fights. So we will not worry about helping her just now.”
“Dog fights?”
A phone rang. The Reverend pulled a cell from his pocket. He looked at the screen, frowned. “I am sorry, sister, this is a call I have to take. Thank you for your kindness to O’sheron.”
Lottie nodded and went outside. She looked back at the woman, still leaning against her car, now smoking a cigarette. The woman waved and shouted. “You find her?”
Lottie shrugged, lifted her arms in a “sorry” gesture, and walked on. The woman hollered, her voice screeching outrage.
Lottie turned the corner, wind whipping her hair around her face. For a moment, all she could see was coarse brown hair. She could no longer hear the woman. She recalled the Reverend’s voice, so deep. A beautiful voice.
Sister, he’d called her.
She left work early and treated herself to a taxi to Shear Magic. Inside the salon, a tall, cream-skinned young woman wiggled up to Lottie. A name tag bounced on her right breast: Melanie/ Hair Chemist. Short yellow hair spiked from her head. A purple cross tattooed her left arm.
“You must be our Lottie!” Melanie exclaimed.
Lottie agreed and presented her gift certificate.
Melanie squeezed the certificate into the rear pocket of her tight red capris. “I remember your hubby. What a sweetie! And a hunkalicious, too, you lucky gal!”
Melanie plunged her hands into Lottie’s hair. “Follow me, hon,” she chirped. Her voice was soft. “We’ll show you the way to beautiful hair salvation.”
Lottie frowned. Salvation? Salvation was in a little church in a crumbling Section Eight apartment building. Salvation had nothing to do with hair. Blasphemy. Lottie suddenly felt the meaning of that word.
She followed Melanie down a long aisle, past chairs occupied by chattering women in various stages of hair salvation. Young stylists in tight capris and bright tank tops chewed gum and chattered with their ladies while wielding scissors and combs.
Melanie ushered Lottie into a small room. A TV dominated one wall. Lottie looked at her reflection in its glossy black screen. Her wild hair stormed from her head like a thunder cloud.
“Good Lord,” Lottie said. “I look like I’ve just stuck a fork into an outlet.”
“Well, hon, you’ll be kissing that fork goodbye,” Melanie said. “But first things first. There’s a little video we have our clients watch before they start the process. You’ll see highlights of what you can expect during your three-hour session today.
Melanie dimmed the lights and motioned Lottie into a white leather sofa. A young woman with bubbly orange hair entered and handed Lottie a glass of white wine. She set down a platter of cheese and crackers on the coffee table in front of Lottie.
“Sit back, relax, and enjoy,” Melanie said as she exited the room.
The TV hissed on. Lottie sipped wine, ignored the food, and learned she’d be shampooed, conditioned, and creamed with a “patented re-texturizing cream.” Next, blow dried with a patented Bio Ionic blow dryer, ironed with an Ion Re-texturizing flat iron, rinsed again, shampooed, conditioned, vent brushed, and blow dried yet again. Then, she’d “enjoy” a final session with a flat iron. A black woman smiled from the screen; her long hair as smooth as her high-cheek-boned face. From a velvety voice, she purred:
“You can’t wash your hair, ponytail it, wear a headband or barrettes, or even tuck it behind your ears. Even though your hair will be straight, the chemicals need to set, and you don’t want to do anything to dent it. Then you return for another shampoo, blow dry, and flat iron service, but after that, and here’s the great part, it should take you about ten minutes of blowing after you shampoo to keep your hair straight. Not the hour or more it probably used to take! Just remember, you’ll need to commit to this service. Your hair will still keep growing out kinky, so every four months or so, you’ll get the whole re-texturizing service again.”
The TV screen faded to black. Melanie and two other hair chemists entered the room. One turned off the TV, one turned on the lights. Lottie once again stared at her frizzy-haired reflection in the glossy black TV screen.
Melanie carried an open bottle of chardonnay. Lottie smiled and held up her empty glass.
“Ready, hon?” Melanie asked as she splashed wine into Lottie’s glass.
Lottie slugged down the wine and nodded.
“You must be our Lottie!” Melanie exclaimed.
Lottie agreed and presented her gift certificate.
Melanie squeezed the certificate into the rear pocket of her tight red capris. “I remember your hubby. What a sweetie! And a hunkalicious, too, you lucky gal!”
Melanie plunged her hands into Lottie’s hair. “Follow me, hon,” she chirped. Her voice was soft. “We’ll show you the way to beautiful hair salvation.”
Lottie frowned. Salvation? Salvation was in a little church in a crumbling Section Eight apartment building. Salvation had nothing to do with hair. Blasphemy. Lottie suddenly felt the meaning of that word.
She followed Melanie down a long aisle, past chairs occupied by chattering women in various stages of hair salvation. Young stylists in tight capris and bright tank tops chewed gum and chattered with their ladies while wielding scissors and combs.
Melanie ushered Lottie into a small room. A TV dominated one wall. Lottie looked at her reflection in its glossy black screen. Her wild hair stormed from her head like a thunder cloud.
“Good Lord,” Lottie said. “I look like I’ve just stuck a fork into an outlet.”
“Well, hon, you’ll be kissing that fork goodbye,” Melanie said. “But first things first. There’s a little video we have our clients watch before they start the process. You’ll see highlights of what you can expect during your three-hour session today.
Melanie dimmed the lights and motioned Lottie into a white leather sofa. A young woman with bubbly orange hair entered and handed Lottie a glass of white wine. She set down a platter of cheese and crackers on the coffee table in front of Lottie.
“Sit back, relax, and enjoy,” Melanie said as she exited the room.
The TV hissed on. Lottie sipped wine, ignored the food, and learned she’d be shampooed, conditioned, and creamed with a “patented re-texturizing cream.” Next, blow dried with a patented Bio Ionic blow dryer, ironed with an Ion Re-texturizing flat iron, rinsed again, shampooed, conditioned, vent brushed, and blow dried yet again. Then, she’d “enjoy” a final session with a flat iron. A black woman smiled from the screen; her long hair as smooth as her high-cheek-boned face. From a velvety voice, she purred:
“You can’t wash your hair, ponytail it, wear a headband or barrettes, or even tuck it behind your ears. Even though your hair will be straight, the chemicals need to set, and you don’t want to do anything to dent it. Then you return for another shampoo, blow dry, and flat iron service, but after that, and here’s the great part, it should take you about ten minutes of blowing after you shampoo to keep your hair straight. Not the hour or more it probably used to take! Just remember, you’ll need to commit to this service. Your hair will still keep growing out kinky, so every four months or so, you’ll get the whole re-texturizing service again.”
The TV screen faded to black. Melanie and two other hair chemists entered the room. One turned off the TV, one turned on the lights. Lottie once again stared at her frizzy-haired reflection in the glossy black TV screen.
Melanie carried an open bottle of chardonnay. Lottie smiled and held up her empty glass.
“Ready, hon?” Melanie asked as she splashed wine into Lottie’s glass.
Lottie slugged down the wine and nodded.
Forty-five minutes later, Lottie exited the salon. She was pleasantly buzzed from the wine. Wind rushed behind, pushing her forward.
Lottie spread her arms, running, laughing. Her briefcase, slung over her shoulder by its long strap, bounced against her legs like it was applauding her.
She slowed to a walk. Other pedestrians huddled and hurried through the cold. It was just after five, and office workers streamed from buildings and clogged sidewalks. But Lottie did not feel the cold. She felt light, free. She ran her fingers through the short springy curls that hugged her head like a crown.
“My curves keepin’ me warm,” she murmured.
A simple cut had taken only $100 from the gift certificate. She’d cashed out the surplus. She had $300 in her coat pocket.
She spun around, ignoring the puzzled looks of her fellow pedestrians rushing along Michigan Avenue. She smiled at a street musician by a Walgreens who stopped blowing into his clarinet long enough to belt out, “Right on, sister!”
She stopped suddenly, causing pedestrians to swerve around her. She felt like Moses parting the Red Sea.
She plucked a twenty from her pocket and dropped it through the slot in a box next to the musician.
“Bless you, Sister,” the musician said.
“You too, Brother,” she replied.
She resumed walking briskly, curving flawlessly through tiny openings in the mass of humanity.
Would the Prayer Warriors Salvation Church be open now? She’d find out the service times, drop the rest of her Shear Magic cash into their collection basket.
She’d offer Charles the option of attending services with her. Poor guy. He wouldn’t see that curve ball coming.
She passed a McDonald’s, a Starbucks, a Corner Bakery, but she kept walking. She’d had nothing to eat since breakfast, but she wasn’t hungry. Not hungry all. She was full of sharp curves and sweet possibilities.
Lottie spread her arms, running, laughing. Her briefcase, slung over her shoulder by its long strap, bounced against her legs like it was applauding her.
She slowed to a walk. Other pedestrians huddled and hurried through the cold. It was just after five, and office workers streamed from buildings and clogged sidewalks. But Lottie did not feel the cold. She felt light, free. She ran her fingers through the short springy curls that hugged her head like a crown.
“My curves keepin’ me warm,” she murmured.
A simple cut had taken only $100 from the gift certificate. She’d cashed out the surplus. She had $300 in her coat pocket.
She spun around, ignoring the puzzled looks of her fellow pedestrians rushing along Michigan Avenue. She smiled at a street musician by a Walgreens who stopped blowing into his clarinet long enough to belt out, “Right on, sister!”
She stopped suddenly, causing pedestrians to swerve around her. She felt like Moses parting the Red Sea.
She plucked a twenty from her pocket and dropped it through the slot in a box next to the musician.
“Bless you, Sister,” the musician said.
“You too, Brother,” she replied.
She resumed walking briskly, curving flawlessly through tiny openings in the mass of humanity.
Would the Prayer Warriors Salvation Church be open now? She’d find out the service times, drop the rest of her Shear Magic cash into their collection basket.
She’d offer Charles the option of attending services with her. Poor guy. He wouldn’t see that curve ball coming.
She passed a McDonald’s, a Starbucks, a Corner Bakery, but she kept walking. She’d had nothing to eat since breakfast, but she wasn’t hungry. Not hungry all. She was full of sharp curves and sweet possibilities.
Marie Anderson is a Chicago area married mother of three. After dropping out of law school, she worked in schools and offices and has written many stories. Her work has appeared in about 40 publications, including Brain Child, Lamplight, Gathering Storm, Woman’s World, Downstate Story, Who Knocks?, Liguorian, St. Anthony Messenger, and Sweet Tree Review.