The Press and Curl Conspiracy

Copyright 2002
Tsan Abrahamson

Annie’s duty to the curling iron had been forewarned by her mother. “Teetah and Helen want to do your hair now that you’re older,” Rose had explained – somewhat reluctantly -- on the plane ride out for their Summer visit to Chicago. “So just be gracious and smile and let them do it, OK? It would mean a lot to your grandmother,” she said, and let out a long sigh. “And, well, it’s probably time, anyway, I guess. I’ve sort of neglected you in this area.”

“Does it wash out?” Annie asked her mother, figuring -- or at least hoping -- that whatever strange manipulations were in store for her head could be reversed by a romp through the fire hydrant with Poo.

“And what’s wrong with my hair, anyway?”

Rose smiled. “It’ll wash out. And there’s nothing wrong with your hair. It’s just, well, your grandma wants you to look like -- ” she hesitated, “like a movie star. You know, Lola Falana or Mary Tyler Moore, just while we’re in Chicago.”

“Do you have your hair done?” Annie asked.

“Not like they’re talking about, no. I don’t have to have my hair done anymore, thank God. But your grandma and Teetah, well, they’re not quite ready for 1970, honey.” Annie’s mother pulled her compact out and surveyed the increasingly more salt than pepper short-cropped afro she had worn for the past 3 years.

“But can’t you just tell them this is the way I like my hair?” Annie said. Rose sighed again. “It’s not that easy.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

Grandma was waiting for them at the Parker House when they stepped out of the airport shuttle bus. Annie gave her grandmother a hug and crawled in the back of the Thunderbird for the ride to Teetah’s house. She loved her grandmother, despite the stale cigarette smoke that hung heavy around her most days.

“Put them grips in the back, Rose,” said Annie’s Grandma. “We’ll stop quick at Teetah’s first – the boys are there playin’ bones -- and then we’ll head on out to Hyde Park. Helen’s over, too.”

On the drive out, Annie played with the electric windows, letting in the humid outside air and then counting the seconds until the air conditioning vanquished it. Every year, they visited the family. Every year Grandma met them at the Parker House. And every year they headed straight to Aunt Teetah’s. She didn’t mind Teetah, but it was her grandfather she couldn’t wait to see. It was he who would really take care of her this summer.

“How ‘bout some ice cream?” he would ask when it got too hot to stay in the apartment. After dinner, he would teach her betting games like liar’s dice and craps, the ante for which was a popsicle. At night, he would darken the living room and tell ghost stories with a flashlight pushed up against his chin, which would hollow out his Cajun skin and frighten her something fierce.

Last summer, when the temperature went above 100°, Grandpa got his ‘magic’ wrench and turned on the fire hydrant so she and Poo could cool down in the powerful spray. This, naturally, made her the most popular girl in the neighborhood.

And it was Grandpa who had taught her how to throw a baseball. So well, in fact, that when the neighborhood kids chose up sides Annie was always in the top 3 picks, despite the presence of older boys with a longer reach.

The two of them were thick as thieves. Definitely, Grandpa was her favorite part about trips to Chicago, Annie mused.

“Teetah is all ready for Annie,” said her grandmother to Rose.

“Um hmm,” came her mother’s flat reply.

“And this year’s a zero year so we have the whole family together on the 4th. Little Man, Philip, Pookie, Buster, She-She, Poo, TT, Butch, Isabel, Big Ted; even Marshall might fly up.” She turned back to Annie.

“You excited to see all your aunties and cousins, baby?”

Aunt Teetah was not Annie’s real aunt. For that matter, Aunt Helen was just an older cousin, and TT was somebody’s ex-husband who had been co-opted into the family years ago, but no one seemed bothered by these irregularities. Annie was looking forward to seeing all of her cousins, especially Poo, who was really Paul, Jr. but since his father wasn’t around, he just went by his nickname. Even Annie’s mother’s real name was Jean, but everyone called her Rose, “on account o’ them cheeks,” her grandfather once told her.

Teetah’s house always smelled like something was cooking, which was usually the case. There was corn bread or biscuits – the good, lumpy kind that come from dropping big wads of dough from a spoon onto a cookie sheet -- and cold chicken in the refrigerator, and always some kind of soup or beans or casserole on the stove for that night’s dinner (unless it was Sunday in which case it was ham). Annie was encouraged to take as much as she liked, though Rose would squeeze Annie’s hand under the table whenever beans were served. (“too damn much fatback,” her mother would tell her, when they were safely at Grandma’s house in Hyde Park).

“Is Poo gonna be at Aunt Teetah’s?” asked Annie, another possible cousin. Annie knew that Poo wasn’t Teetah’s son, because Teetah was old like her grandmother, but all anyone had ever told her was that he stayed there. When Annie came to visit, Poo would stay with her at her grandmother’s place, which gave Teetah a rest. No one talked about Poo’s mother, though once Annie heard the grownups say she stayed at the Steel Chateau, which must be nice since it was French sounding.

“Yes, Annie, and he’s looking forward to seeing you, too,” her grandmother said. They turned the corner and pulled into the driveway of one of the many identical yellow brick houses on Higham Street. Annie was pleased to see a small group of neighborhood kids playing softball with a Nerf ball.

“Can I go play?” Annie asked, quickly stepping out of the car.

“Later sweetheart,” her mother whispered. “Let’s go in and see everyone for awhile.”

“Oh my Lord, look at that nappy hair,” said Teetah, laughing. “Come on over here and give me some sugar, baby.” Annie was barely in the door, still eyeing the two neighborhood kids, but she knew Teetah was talking about her. Aunt Helen nodded and hummed; the same hum Annie heard when Helen agreed with the preacher on Sundays. They followed Teetah into the family room where the men were finishing up a house of dominoes.

“Now, wash them bones good, boy,” Annie heard her grandfather instructing Poo as he shuffled the dominoes for the next round.

“Hi Grandpa.”

Her grandfather turned around and lifted her up with a groan to signify how heavy she’d become.

“Oh my LORD!” he shouted. “Look at you, little one.” He put her down and whispered to her, “How’s that throwing arm?”

“It’s fine,” Annie said, making a muscle for him to feel. “Wanna see me?”

“Later, baby,” he said, and winked at her. “We got a helluva match goin’ on in here. You and me got all summer.”

“This little one sure is growin’ up, ain’t she?” said Teetah, motioning Annie out of the family room and toward the back door in the kitchen. Aunt Helen and Grandma followed. Rose followed, too, her perfectly manicured hand guiding Annie’s shoulder.

“Buster!” Teetah called back to her husband “We headed out to the shop with the baby. Don’t let my beans boil over, now, and y’all don’t make no mess on my table and floor with them pork cracklins!”

CrrrRACK came the response; someone’s domino slammed on the metal-edged formica tabletop in the family room.

“GIVE ME MY MONEY, NEGRO!” Buster shouted and laughed. Someone scribbled points on a pad.

“Buster, you hear me?” Teetah called out again.

“I hear you, old woman. Ya’ll go on and do your girl stuff and don’t be worryin’ us. Poo, go stir them beans.” Poo, left his post behind Buster and dutifully slid his gangly seven year-old stocking feet across the plastic runner into the kitchen to check on the red beans that were simmering with the ham bone on the stove.

“Wanna play outside after you finish?” Poo asked Annie as she queued behind her grandmother. She nodded.

“See you after lunch,” she said. “And don’t start without me.” At eight, Annie was bigger than Poo; her admonishment would stick.

The foursome of women followed Teetah out the kitchen door, across the lawn, and into to the renovated garage out back. The fluorescent bulb revealed two beautician’s chairs, a washing sink, a large hair dryer, and a couch, all of which sat, somewhat haphazard and awkwardly on a worn brown checkered linoleum floor.

“Flip the fan on, baby,” Teetah said, motioning Annie toward a shelf that ran alond the wall above the washing sink. The shelf sagged under the weight of the fan and the various trade tools it held: half-filled jars of blue and green jelly-like hair dresssings with names like Oil of Bergamot, Tres Flores and Ultra Sheen; carbon steel curling irons and hot combs, colored black from 30 years of straightening and recurling coarse, kinky black hair; old shoeboxes filled with bright colored curlers ranging in size from cigarettes to soup cans.

Endless knick-knacks were also crammed on Teetah’s work table. Bottles, jellies, tubes of cream, tiny neck papers, scissors, electric clippers, combs in bright blue solution, plastic jars, cotton balls, bobby pins. Rising above the flotsam and jetsam on Teetah’s work table sat a small steel box with a hole in it – like a birdcage without a pitched roof, Annie thought. Teetah reached down, plugged in the old cloth cord, and touched the top to make sure the box was heating. Rose whispered to Annie not to touch it if she valued her fingers.

“C’mon, now,” said Teetah, patting the beautician’s chair already piled with both volumes of the Chicago white pages. “Come on up here and let Auntie Teetah put some sugar in that spice, baby.”

She made her way toward the chair, fingering the cool glass of the jars on the shelf. Annie hoped this summer would be the summer Teetah would stop calling her Baby. She could, after all, read and spell and was likely the best kickball player on McKinley Avenue in Berkeley, a collection of traits that were certainly worthy of a more noble moniker.

“Come on now, little Miss Pele,” Teetah said, patting the barber chair a little harder.

“Pele plays soccer, I play kickball, Aunt Teetah,” she said as she made her way onto the chair.

“Oh I see. OK, how about Willie Stargell?”

“Willie plays baseball, not kickball, Aunt Teetah.”

“Lord, will you listen to this child, Helen? She’s got sports on the brain.” Teetah turned to Rose. “Rosie, what you been teachin’ that child out there in California? She looks like that Angela Davis, all this hair, and all she talks about is that damn kickball.”

“She’s fine, Teetah,” said Rose, watching her daughter fidget to fit herself in the oversized chair.

“Yessir, Rose, all that envelope stuffin’ and whatchacall farm worker protestin’ and whatever-all else you been writing us in those letters done made you lose your mind behind this child. It don’t look like the child ever been to the beauty shop. Look like she got two doo doo balls on her head,” said Teetah, eyeing and then loosening the elastics around Annie’s two hastily made afro-puff pigtails. She looked down at Annie.

“Auntie Teetah’s here and she’s not gonna let her baby walk around with a head lookin’ like a sack o’ woe.” She pondered her task and turned to Rose. “You need to start taking this child to the beauty shop more regular.”

“It’s just not the way we do things anymore, Teetah. Annie doesn’t need her hair pressed. I don’t even know how I let you talk me into this. It’s not the forties anymore. Little girls don’t wear patent leather and pressed hair; they wear sweatpants and, well, doo doo balls.”

“You’re here because you know you this child should learn how colored folks need to act and look if they gonna be presentable. She’s not a little baby any more, Rose.”

“We don’t say ‘colored’ and we don’t have to press our hair to be presentable. I’m not saying it’s a bad thing, it’s just not compulsory, Teetah. You know, it’s not a step ‘n’ fetchit world, anymore. And anyway, from a practical perspective, Annie’s a tomboy. She can’t keep herself prim like that. Taking her to the beauty shop would be a waste of money.”

Teetah let go of the patch of hair she had been beating into submission and laid down the black comb on her work table. She fixed her gaze on Rose, and deliberately placed a hand on each hip.

“I don’t know who you think you talkin’ to. Ain’t nobody in this house ever stepped and fetched nothin! And if they did, you better believe it was that or get themselves lynched. I know you ain’t forgot where you came from. If it weren’t for your daddy goin’ to that university every day to mop them floors, you wouldn’t have all that education you got right now!” She picked up another section of hair and resumed her detangling. Her voice softened. “Well, anyway, all I’m talking about here is some plain old little girl manners. No matter what kind of world we’re in, my little Annie is a young lady now. She needs to – whatchacall – start being a woman or she’s gonna end up like that Billy Jean King. Now, isn’t that a shame.” Grandma and Helen hummed.

“Of course, Teetah. I’m sorry,” Rose said.

“Nothin’ to be sorry about, child. Now go on and get your old mama and aunties some lemonade up to the house while I work on this rat’s nest.”

Rose went up to the kitchen and came back with lemonade and potato chips. She and Annie listened while the women talked about recipes and TV shows. Teetah continued to work on the hair, occasionally swinging Annie around to the mirror so she could watch the progress.

Annie was still too small to sit in the shampooing chair so Rose set up the ironing board right to the sink height. Teetah dipped her hands into the various colored jars and massaged the floral-smelling goo into Annie’s hair.

“Do you wash Poo’s hair?” Annie asked.

“No, baby, he’s a boy,” Teetah said.

It was like a secret club, just for the women, a private club where one drank lemonade and talked about television shows, and got one’s hair washed. Teetah’s hands felt good massaging her scalp and she thought briefly that perhaps this initiation into what was certainly womanhood might be worth sacrificing her former post next to Poo, snatching pork rinds and onion dip from the table, while the men played dominoes.

“Do you wash Mom’s hair?”

“No.”

From the washing board, Annie, along with the phone book stack, was hoisted into the drying chair. And from there, back to the beautician’s chair. The oven had been heating the pressing comb and curling iron and Teetah tested them with her fingers and then laid them on a white towel, while she greased the edges of Annie’s hair with a blue vaseline-like cream.

“Now hold your ears, like this,” she said, and bent the tips of her own ears forward. Annie followed her lead. Then Teetah grabbed the hot pressing comb and sunk the teeth of it into the tuft of hair she was holding.

“OOOOOOOUCH!” Annie screamed and jerked away. The edge of the comb had touched her tender neck and a welt was forming. Annie’s face twisted as the smell of burning hair reached her nose.

“Sorry, baby, it won’t happen again,” said Teetah. “Helen, go up to the house and get some butter for this child’s neck.” Annie looked over at her mother, hoping, knowing she would rescue her. Rose was watching the floor.

There were a few more burns and several more smears of butter while the hot comb and curling iron turned Annie’s fuzzy kinks into a series of perfectly coifed tiny ringlets, secured by two pink bows.

“Now!” Teetah said triumphantly and whirled Annie around to the mirror. Annie smiled at her reflection in the mirror, somewhat surprised to see that it was actually her.

Back in the house, there came the requisite oohs and aahs from Grandpa and Buster. Annie bowed and twirled once, as she had learned in her folk dance class and the men clapped. She enjoyed the compliments from her grandfather and uncles, the new attention. Still, she was drawn to the front window where she had seen the two boys playing earlier.

“Can I go out to play?” She asked after a time. She had, after all, completed her assignment as promised, and she wanted to show Poo that she had learned how to really swipe the bag over the last year.

“Oh, goodness child, no!” The response from Teetah was swift and definite. “You just got your hair done. How you gonna keep that hair, you start swinging bats and such? No sir, you can go sit on the stoop and watch, but you got to give all that rough-housin’ up, baby. You take care of that hair and it’ll look pretty for a week.”

Poo looked at Annie, who eyes were beginning to fog. This wasn’t the deal. She looked at her mother, who shook her head, evidently agreeing with Teetah.

“That’s alright,” said Poo. “You can watch me play. Come on out to the porch.”

Annie turned and followed Poo toward the front yard and heard Teetah call after her to stay on the stoop. She lowered her heavy body, weighted by a lifetime of 8 year-old ringlets, onto the top step and watched through vision blurred by tears as Poo picked up a game of catch with the two neighborhood boys. Behind her, Rose opened the screen door and walked over to the stoop. They sat together watching silently while Poo and the neighborhood boys tossed a ball between them.

“Oh, sweetie. Don’t take it so hard. You look so pretty.” She wiped the tears from her daughter’s cheek with the back of her sleeve. “When we get back to California, you don’t have to go to the beauty shop any more and you can play anything you want with your friends.”

“Why,” said Annie, not sure what she meant.

“It’s hard to explain, Annie. It’s all wrapped up in some confusing history and I’m not even sure I know why. But I’m proud of you for making your aunties and grandma happy.” Rose stood up and started back to the house. “Don’t worry, baby. It’s just a day. A week at the most. Things will be back to normal when we get home.” Annie heard the screen door closed behind Rose.

Annie closed her eyes and prayed her mother would return with a wrench to turn on the hydrant. But she didn’t come. Annie watched Poo play. She looked behind her through the windows of the front room where Rose was watching.