The sun readied for another day. Roosters crowed its coming three blocks removed from Bundles, a hair salon owned and operated by Bernice. She breathed in the cool air with closed eyes as her hands glided down the metal hoops of door handles. By the feathered touch alone, she expected rain within the hour. A cloud couldn’t be seen for miles, but her hands never lied.
Yesterday was the fifth Saturday of the month, which meant Jenisa should be stopping by for another hair solution to her man problems. Bernice tried not to judge the twenty-something woman whenever she vented about a cheater, a neglecter, and (if the Sunday coincided with a full moon) a ghost. Of course, Jenisa would deny that her problems resurfaced after five Saturdays, and she would be half-right. Bernice didn’t need all personal details to work, though. She only cared for two things: the neck and the scalp.
Humming, Bernice set her station while the sun visited her salon. You can’t stay long today, she thought in a tune while cleaning combs and razors.
The salon only had one mechanical chair to worth with; Bernice had the entire island that ran half the length of the building to herself. A black bench around the same size was stationed in front of the chair, centered perfectly. It was a far enough distance from the door for loiterers to shrug off an unsolicited stay and actual customers to make up their minds on what hairstyle they could want for the season. If a makeover was too overwhelming, they should at least have a detail in mind: hair length, color, texture. Bernice had to know these things before she touched hair; otherwise, her hands wouldn’t know what to do.
Leaning into the chair—but never sitting—Bernice awaited her first customer for the day. The sun was smothered in company. Its direct shine had left the salon a little while ago. Bernice technically did not open for another half hour, but her hands woke her up early with all its sweat. She had to wipe them down ten times over before they dried. Once she was on her feet, she couldn’t go back to bed. Her doctor wouldn’t recommend it. Mister was also a light sleeper and needed all his rest this morning. He had a business meeting in Vidalia today. Bernice asked him once to bring onions if he could remember.
Twenty-eight minutes before official operating hours, Jenisa knocked on the door with a struggling umbrella. It took on the punches of the rain helplessly, scattering into new shapes by the wind’s say so. Jenisa waved Bernice over even after she was already on her way to the door. A swift unlock with jingling keys later, Jenisa stormed inside with a thick aroma of July’s rain.
“I prayed that you’d be open this early. I cannot stand another day with this,” she said, pointing to her hair. She was really pointing to her quivering brain on the cusp of another episode of man problems.
“Don’t you worry. I’ll take care of it, like always,” Bernice said. She walked as loudly as she could in her brown loafers—a quiet noise that penetrated the pockets of silence that came with heavy rain. Even clouds needed breaks to breathe.
Jenisa dropped her purse and sat in the chair. She straightened her back as she leaned into the leather. With pressed lips, her head swiveled from side to side like a screw coming loose. Bernice paused then continued the remaining paces to the chair to prepare for her assignment.
“It’s Adrian again. I told you about his coco butter kisses, right?” Jenisa’s eyes told stories through the tears Bernice spotted on the wide mirror across the room. The forming droplets were but atoms at this distance that caught the LED lights.
“Kisses that tasted like coco butter?”
“Kisses that smelt like coco butter.” Jenisa whimpered before wiping her eyes. “He never caught feelings, said something about needing more from a partner in a relationship. What more could I have given?” Bernice dared not answer the question. She let the rain speak for her. Thunder boomed over the pattering noise for the length of a full breath.
“I need the next kiss he gives to sting with regret.” Jenisa fixed her eyelashes with a meticulous fingernail and sniffed her emotions away. “So like…what’s going to make my last man wish he would’ve kept me?”
Bernice journeyed around the chair with easy steps. She pictured what Jenisa’s request required. Her hands spoke to her in snaps to mark a special occasion of stylists’ choice. Satisfied with her mind’s projection, Bernice clicked her heels together and leaned into Jenisa’s ear.
“What you need is war braids.” Bernice said with puckered lips and shy eyes.
“Come again?”
“You need to go back to your roots—back to the beads. Can’t you see the confidence you’ll get with stars on your head?”
The sun momentarily broke through the clouds to agree. Curious, Jenisa lifted her chin as Bernice rummaged through the drawers in front of her. Plastic bags crumbled and scattered through survey and rejection. Then, she found it. Bernice rose with a pouch of clear beads that danced in the light with a diamond’s brilliance.
“These will do,” she said.
No other customer walked into the salon as Bernice got to work. She massaged Jenisa’s roots in the sink with firm presses. Her hands dug in and crept out. They sought new paths on each trip, new boxes for braids. After patting dry, Jenisa’s hair cocooned into a towel for the next phase. Bernice waited for the water to finish collecting a moment longer before unraveling her project.
Bernice’s own hair was wispy and gray. She could be mistaken for bald at a distance, and the thought no longer bothered her. She considered letting go of all her hair not long after it started falling out. There appeared to be power in showing what remained of it, of what remained of her.
Through each stroke of a blue comb, Jenisa’s hair untangled. Bernice prepared the hair into workable strands. Once the pulling started, Jenisa’s head jerked backward with an expressionless face. Bernice could not tell if this last man broke Jenisa or not. Her guiding hands tickled Jenisa’s roots. She smiled briefly. Bernice smiled back while holding a quarter braid with her left hand and searching for black rubber bands with her right. She saw Jenisa’s scalp as the beginning of time: formless yet full of potential. Each crystal bead to Jenisa’s black hair resembled stars caught in their maturing stage. In her hair, the universe had condensed with the singing sopranos of starlight. Bernice perfected the choir and spritzed more shine.
The clock read six. Jenisa admired her new look in the small, circular mirror in Bernice’s greasy hands. Olive oil spray statured her braids with a multidimensional glimmer, a microphone that could last up to a week. Jenisa couldn’t stop shaking her head yes as the beads sang their song.
She didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how much to pay. Jenisa picked up her pink purse and dug around with gracious hands. Bernice stopped her amid her search for service dollars. Jenisa turned around with pressed lips again, this time with down-curled brows. She nodded at the island, at the LED lights, at the checkered floors which never dirtied, at the clear-view door that saw over a hill as if the salon was on top of the world.
Bernice waited with her arms across the chair for the sun’s golden rain. She worked overtime for Jenisa and deserved it. She could hear Ole Mae clapping her hands now at the finish of their hair-doing sessions.
Ole Mae taught Bernice all things hair. She used to plat Bernice’s hair until her hands clenched shut with arthritis. By then, Bernice had already started finishing her braids once she could grab them. After so many sessions, her fingers danced to finish without her eye’s aid.
“When do you figure I can get a perm like the other girls?” Bernice could remember asking her great aunt during one of their last hair sessions. She sat on a wooden stool outside of a wooden porch that creaked whenever someone leaned too heavily in one direction. The outdoor light couldn’t outshine the setting sun, but it removed shadows that would have otherwise complicated the braiding process.
Contemplating, Ole Mae shifted her weight from one leg to the other. “Why are you trying to be like other girls? Just cause it’s popular don’t mean it’s right.”
“I’m the only one who hasn’t gotten one yet.” Present-day Bernice spun in her salon and felt her now weaker hair. “People are saying I look like the Queen of Africa—
“Stop all that fidgeting.” Ole Mae had tugged Bernice’s head back with her hair. Bernice sighed and crossed her legs. “You are the Queen of Africa. These other girls will one day wish they had known that about themselves.”
“Oh, that faithful day,” Bernice had mumbled to herself.
Ole Mae stopped working on a hair strand and stepped back with her wrists curled against her hips. She wore a blouse in the shade of deep ocean waters that day. It flapped in the wind, lining out Ole Mae’s body as faintly as the breeze. Bernice turned to face her great aunt with worrying eyes. She had clasped her hands together against her chest, pressing onto the highlighter yellow shirt she had gotten from the mall for a bargain.
The sun shot straight into Ole Mae’s eyes as she leaned in.
“You’re going to get one anyway, aren’t you?”