NIGGER, WHO TAUGHT YOU OCTAGON?

Editor's Note:
The origin of the title: "Nig, who taught you octagon?" is from Chris Rock. He was joking about slaves being forbidden to read and what a dilemma it must have been to try to hide it. So the joke goes that the slave who's driving cracker's buggy comes up to a stop sign and is scared to stop for fear of incriminating himself as literate. So he explains that he knew to stop because he saw the big red octagon...
Get it? My learning that simultaneously eating and hot combing wasnt normal is akin to learning to read and seeing the world in a new way.

I’ve been going to a black hair salon all my life. Can’t think of any reason why I may have ever been in a white one.

Until television brought me there, of course.

If your life is as pathetic as mine and is predicated by a television schedule you watch cable like me, you’ve probably seen Peter.Perfect on Style network. Ok so the concept is that Petey, who is a renowned Bevvy Hills stylist, goes to struggling salons and basically does a makeover on the shop and the owners.

So it’s just like any good makeover show…first they highlight the foolishness. He runs up and through the shops kicking stuff over, and hollering in amazement that they even have a single client the way they got their shit set up.

So I’ve seen a couple episodes that featured black salons. And they are oddly familiar…

No receptionist.

No separate break area.

Stylists stopping mid-perm to take a personal call.

Plastic lawn chairs in the “waiting area.”

Cushion coming all out of the ripped up dryer chairs and shit.

Stylists balancing a chicken box in one hand and a tail comb in the other.

The Dudley products on display out of a cardboard box.

So Peter goes absolutely bananas when he sees this shit. He simply cannot believe that this is a business, much less a profitable one. He can’t fathom a place where there’s not a person dedicated to answering the phones and taking appointments. It is beyond his realm of possibilities that clients should ever witness their stylists having lunch.

So then he takes the poor saps to his salon. They get there and are immediately greeted by a friendly and trendy receptionist who offers them water and champagne and shit. They walk in and it’s like an oasis of beauty and relaxation. Completely foreign.

So this is the part where I start dreaming about freedom...

So I’m sitting in the salon yesterday getting my locs sexied. My fav neighborhood pal found this place in our hood, and I decided to give them a holler. It’s nice inside. There’s some gospel music blaring, and it’s fairly quiet. Not too much shenanigans. I’m pleased. I don’t sit and wait 100 years before I’m called over. I’m immediately shampooed, albeit half assedly . It was serene and pleasant, and very befitting of the modest digs.

But then suddenly homegirl’s cellie starts singing. She goes ape shit trying to answer it. Says hello loudly no less than seven times before slamming it down in frustration. Then some chick comes in talking and talking and talking. Loud. And I’m zoning out. She asks me if I’m ok, because “I’m really quiet,” and I pause. I’m really quiet because I already told your ass that you parting my damn hair feels like you’re pulling up loc’d hair and you pretty much ignored me. And because ain't nothing to be talking about... I'm reading!

I sink into my book and only partly absorb the words on the pages. My mind is actually wandering back to television. And I’m pissed! I think of every time a stylists has asked me if I wanted to order something from the Chinese takeout spot next door.

Every time I’ve passed the hours counting roaches.

Recalled the countless personal phone conversations I’ve overheard.

The sons and daughters who come in like it’s Take Your Crumbsnatcher to work day. Every day.

Every time I’ve walked out with a style I didn’t ask for.

The treks through town before arriving, looking for an ATM machine because I know they don’t take cards.

The times I've almost tripped on pulled up linoleum on the floor.

The times I've left smelling like hair spray and bbq ribs.

It could very well be that I just havent been to an upscale black establishment. This is true. I have a penchant for the hood since most of the places I've lived have been mostly blue collar towns. But damn, why do I feel real plantation about my experiences? Why do I feel like I've been accepting this nonsense as normal?

Why do I feel like the ngga who just learned to read and sees the world in a whole new way? This some ole bullshit!!