Service Without the Smile

The hook here is that I decided to chop my hair off a whole year after I wrote the bulk of this, primarily for several of the reasons chronicled here, and another ill-fated faux loc misadventure. I'm not upset, nor was my decision to start over based on any ill-will, just needed a change. --ADH

Picture it, November 2023...

Initially, I was just planning to post a few pictures to the Facebook page and share a few thoughts about a recent ordeal. But once I got to remembering and realized that I had PARAGRAPHS of built-up frustration written out on the page, it made more sense to move this vent in this space where I could really expound. Because I have a lot to say...

This began when I wanted to write a quick note about alumni giving. HBCU Homecomings have finally received mainstream media attention, so I thought of that as an opportunity to preach my annual #HBCUJustGive sermonette to the masses. After a few paragraphs, I concluded with a shady reference to Atlanta restaurants (which people were talking about because of TikTok influencer Keith Lee, and we'll definitely address that here as well) and the complaints I've been seeing on social media about hair stylist pricing. I then thought, hmm, here's a chance for me to air out my gripes about my own experience of feeling price gouged at the hair salon, an experience that still has me feeling some kind of way weeks after the fact.

Because this isn't an anonymous business review posted to Yelp, no names are provided to protect identities. This is also not a stream of consciousness rant on X, nor a vengeful TikTok video because nobody has time for all of that. This is how I felt about an experience that is unique to me, and my goal here is not to destroy anyone's livelihood or tarnish their reputation. Of course, I could have opted not to say anything, but I came to the conclusion that I needed a catharsis after biting my tongue for so long. A wise person once told me some years ago that repression is bad for the soul (as a handy addendum to the adage that confession is good for the soul).

A little over a year ago, I decided to get my hair braided for the first time in a decade. I asked around, and by chance mentioned to my stylist (of many years) what I was looking to have done. She told me that she had braiders on staff at the salon, and that I just needed to make an appointment. Seemed easy enough, but then came the fine print disclaimers. I needed to decide if I was getting knotless braids or box braids, as if I knew what any of that meant since I hadn't gotten my hair braided in 10 years! She tried to explain it to me, and after we perused several pictures on Instagram, we determined that I was looking to get "old school" braids (a form of box braids). That would cost me $200.

Alright, bet, and I was all set to book an appointment. But more fine print--I would have to pay extra to have my hair washed and blow dried by one of these braid stylists. Mind you, this was a salon, not somebody's kitchen or garage. I don't even know if the blow dryer I've had for 20+ years even works, so I opted to schedule an appointment with my regular stylist so that she could prep my hair with a trim and deep condition as well. That ended up costing me $90, but I was optimistic that it was worth the expense. And the prospect of not having to go to a beauty supply store for hair did outweigh that initial cost. I came back two days later, the deed was done, I headed out of town a week later to protect democracy (October 2022), and all was right in my world for a few weeks. I took my braids out a few days after my birthday and thought ahead to my next hair adventure.

Fast forward to February (2023) when I decided to try faux locs. A good friend who gets them done regularly had me thinking I could be cute like her, and since we were heading to Puerto Rico for the Kid's Winter Break, I was looking forward to a boho-inspired look for the beach. In the lead-up to that appointment, I opted not to schedule a pre-wash and blow session with my stylist, thinking that I needed to save some money. However, I didn't learn until the day before my scheduled appointment that I needed to buy my own hair. So, as my Mom would have said, I stepped over a dime to pick up a quarter and didn't really save myself any money in the end. The braid stylist went with me to the beauty supply store to pick out the hair, which cost me $100, plus the actual service ($200+), and tip. When I asked how I would take the style down, she suggested that I could come back in and pay a take-down fee, or I could look it up on YouTube.

I didn't say anything, although I this exchange made me think of the various complaints I had seen over the years posted on social media. For years on Black Twitter, I had read increasingly absurd accounts of patrons being nickeled and dimed for every service, which must have inspired this hilarious skit on A Black Lady Sketch Show ("ABLSS")--which takes place in a nail salon, but the accuracy is uncanny. I mentioned my concerns to my regular stylist, who responded that she understood, but she was allowing these specialty stylists to establish their own practices because they offered services she did not.

Bet, I thought, but still resolved to "educate" myself to avoid any additional $urprise$ should I desire to get another specialty style. Having received a few videos worth of cosmetology training on YouTube Beauty U, I decided to go back to faux locs for the Beyonce show (August 2023) and to rock that look through to mid-Fall. To avoid the beauty supply store markup, I pre-ordered the hair on Amazon and scheduled an appointment in the early afternoon to give myself time to wash my own hair.

Let's skip ahead eight weeks to when it was time to take my hair down. We had family arriving in town, and because I didn't want to look crazy or schedule a hair appointment while they were here, I delayed the take down for a week. At nine weeks it was definitely time and I was uncomfortable with the weight of the added hair and the new growth, so I sat down with a movie and began the process that I had previously learned to take down the style. However, a different braid stylist had installed these locs and after 20 minutes of attempting to unravel one loc, I had no clear understanding of how it had been anchored to my hair. I sat there and fidgeted and uncoiled and then unbraided until one section of my hair was freed. It felt like I was drilling for oil. I repeated this process for over two hours and only got six more locs undone. The next day, attempt #2 yielded the same result, so with 4 hours gone and 12 locs undone, I sent an exasperated text to my regular stylist after 9pm on a Monday night.

I have never done that before, so when she called me back, I immediately felt ashamed for being so helpless. And reflecting back on that precise moment, instead of allowing Catholic guilt to temper my frustrations, I should have been prepared with a list of demands. This absolutely felt like a hostage situation, and I am convinced that I barely escaped with my dignity intact.

(I know, the hyperbole is thick, but stay with me.)

She asked me to come in that Wednesday, and I said that I would try, but I didn't make it because I had to take my Dad to an appointment. I texted her to say that I would try for the following day, but again, something else came up and I was unable to go by the salon. On Friday, I had a funeral to attend, so I had to wrap my head for a third day in order to venture out into the world and not scare any pets, men, or small children. I stopped by the salon on my way home, but none of the stylists familiar with my dilemma were on site. I ended up speaking to a fourth stylist who made it clear that I was on my own. My regular stylist was out of town, so his suggestion was for me to check back on Monday. By this point, I was miffed so I declared that I would figure it out on my own and left. Because in spite of everything else I had going on between my Kid, my parents, and my own isht, surely I had time to take another round of classes at YouTube Beauty U. Because no one else seemed to have any issues when taking their hair down, apparently, I was the problem...

Which was clearly the wrong way of looking at this because I was the one with the problem that dragged on through week 10 and threatened to linger on for another full week until I gave up and called my stylist back to schedule an appointment. Fuck the Catholic guilt; let go of the stigma of being the Black girl with no hair styling skills; get over having to go in for a service I shouldn't have needed; and just pay the damn ransom to get my life back. I was beyond pissed but had no interest in extending this fiasco into a 12th week, and I didn't want to cause any additional damage to my hair. I scheduled the appointment to get the locs taken down and to get my hair done. Of course, that process wasn't drama-free either, but at least the locs were gone. All of that peace of mind only cost me $185 (and tip), plus several unopened packages of hair from Amazon that I can no longer return because who knew this would be such an ordeal?!

What does any of this have to do with Keith Lee? Nothing. But if you've read this far, you might as well keep reading to see how I make the connection. Just indulge me for another paragraph or two...

Now that it has been three weeks since I was released from those faux locs (November 2023), I just happened to be scrolling Black Twitter the last week when I saw where a woman posted a complaint about her experience with a stylist in another state. I won't even link to her thread because I assure you, there are so many similar stories being told of the decline in providing what used to be basic service that I don't need to identify any particular person or locality. Just know that there are horror stories posted on Reddit and videos all over TikTok, as per the recommended route for receiving justice/vengeance due to one of these bad hair day experiences.

I'm not looking for either. And for now, I am sticking with my stylist because the alternative is to take my chances and roll the dice with one of these new school influencers who style hair. I don't know what passes for professional standards or licensure these days, and maybe that's the problem. If the assumption is that anybody who watches enough videos on YouTube can figure out how to style hair, then perhaps it no longer matters that the person who promotes themselves on social media as a professional actually has any credentials. Follower counts and likes are driving business these days, not quality of service, and that is no longer a factor to be shrugged off as regional.

Once upon a time, the Black beauty salon was a place of communal refuge, just like the barber shop for Black men. I won't take you on a nostalgia fantastical voyage because I don't want to give the false impression that a trip to the beauty salon was always a visit to Shangri-La. Some of us still bear the scars--physical, mental, and spiritual; however, most of us agree that the hair salon used to provide respite and service. Hence, another favorite skit from ABLSS Service offered a vision of what should be the norm...alas, it was just a dream.

I know that business owners have overhead and insurance and other assorted costs of doing business, so my complaint is not that I am paying more than I used to. It is that I am paying more and now having to pay extra for basic services that should already be included. Making me do half the work in advance, still charging full price, and expecting a tip is no different than having me shop, ring up and bag my purchases at the grocery store with the prices steadily increasing. What next, will I be charged for each squirt or spritz of product?

In effect, we are hostages, because the corporate mainstream hair care industrial complex still promotes the fallacy that products created for wash and go are suitable for all hair types. Most Black women can't just roll up to the mall Hair Cuttery or Dry Bar and expect to walk out before their lunch hour is over because nobody specializes in Black hair care other than Black people. Wash day is exactly that--a whole DAY, and nobody has time for that. Black women already pay a premium to look presentable to a world where legislation is needed to prevent discrimination against our natural hair texture in the workplace! It is beyond ironic that the BILLION-dollar Black beauty market that made Madame CJ Walker the first Black woman millionaire, precisely because there was a void in services and products provided to Black women, has come to this.

So here is where I pivot to Keith Lee and why his restaurant reviews ought to be regarded and received in a different spirit than the way y'all acted out this week. Because he's not out here destroying Black businesses if he's offering honest assessments of shitty treatment and/or bad food. He's demanding accountability, and to borrow an old-school phrase that seems appropriate, if you can't stand the heat stay out of the kitchen. If you are a musician who has entered the hospitality business to expand your brand, I get that but understand that folks aren't just coming to your establishment to take photos for the gram.

OJ, Trojan Horses, and Other Magical Negroes We Shan't Discuss

I began working on this piece in April 2024 in lieu of a long rant on the FB page. Well, since I'm going back in the drafts to see what can be revisited and published, albeit belatedly, there is no hook, but I did I finally see that really bad movie about Magical Negroes. --ADH

So let's not mince words here because you already know where this is going: not all skinfolks are kinfolks...

Let's not forget that as we contemplate whether to reinvite certain people back to the barbecue this summer. I don't care if those old ladies stayed up all night in the church kitchen, we not going anywhere near that funeral. We haven't forgotten. Some of y'all weren't even born yet, so don't allow any of these folks to rewrite history or act brand new. So yes, I am obviously referring to that Black lady at the Chick-fil-A in Georgia who went viral for fellating Trump after he bought her one of those homophobic milkshakes. And I am also referring to a certain sportswriter who got on Al Gore's internet with his version of small-b history--lacking not just the proper capitalization, but also any kernel of truth. There are a few other honorable mentions, such as those Podcast Bros who can't spell DEI, let alone define it, as well as a very specific and particular pick-me who is trying to act like she's always been down like the four flat tires on that LTD in her uncle's car port.

Yeah, okay Candy O. But first, let's start with a proper eulogy for the man we knew as 'The Juice'. 

Orenthal James: When You Just Don't Stay Black and Die

A consistent mistake made by some Black people who want to be seen as 'transcending race' is to believe that such a feat is possible. Well, the last time I checked, this skin pigmentation does not fade with time, and no matter how articulate, clean, bright, and good-looking a person might be, in some places, ALL of those accomplishments can be derided as unearned exceptions in the blink of an eye. Just another example of 'DEI hiring' the minute you let the mask slip and someone spots a characteristic that confirms whatever misgivings they had. It happens to all of us at some point, and in June 1994, it happened to OJ Simpson. 

Not only am I old enough to remember the trial, but I am old enough to remember when he was still playing professional football (although I am not old enough to remember which team he played for without consulting Al Gore's internet). But let the record show, I recall that he was prominently featured in a series of Hertz rental car commercials and that he was in the first episode of the original Roots miniseries. And because I was an avid and dedicated reader of JET Magazine, I remember that he, along with a few others were certified, bona fide Black football GODS (Jim Brown, Rosey Grier, Mean Joe Greene, and Tony Dorsett were his peers). 

Thus, when he was accused of killing his second ex-wife in 1994, it was THEE most earth-shattering didn't-see-that-coming and who-knew-he-was-an-abusive-asshole...very much in line with the revelation that Bill Cosby had been drugging and raping women for decades and no one said anything. Because WTF??? But I'm not going to revisit history by offering my opinion on what might have happened or why the verdict remains controversial and contested to this day. Nor am I going to say anything that can be misinterpreted as sympathy because what is the point? Folks are going to believe what they want, and to some, OJ did it or he didn't. He's still dead.

However, what OJ did, inadvertently due to the intergalactic interest in the outcome of that trial was: (1) begat 24/7 news coverage; (2) cultivated the audience for tabloid "news" shows like TMZ, Inside Edition, and even The View; (3) redefined the 21st Century notion of housewifery via the career of one Kristen Mary Houghton Kardashian Jenner; and (4) disproved any illusion that America was close to becoming post-racial. The first three points require no further analysis because the fact is there was no 24-hour cable news coverage of anything other than the most serious of news events until OJ led the police on that low-speed highway "chase" in Al Cowlings' white Ford Bronco. Media personalities Harvey Levin, Star Jones, and Leo Terrell are just a few of the "legal analysts" who made big names for themselves because of that trial. And yes, we need to blame OJ for the ubiquity of all things Kardashian.

I know...this is not OJ

As to the fourth point, to all of the delusional Gen X frat boys who want to misremember the 80s and 90s as being post-racial on social media, the OJ Simpson Trial of the Century remains Exhibit A that there is a list of lies y'all need to stop telling yourselves. There is NO such thing as being post-racial. While there are Black people who get to leave the 'hood, experience great success, amass enormous wealth, and even happily marry someone white, none of those elements combine into some magic elixir that causes race to disappear. Allegedly, OJ infamously quipped that he wasn't Black because he was OJ Simpson; and until that fateful night in June 1994, his legend transcended what it meant to be Black. Mind you, there were police reports and documented accusations of his domestic abuse, but he wasn't demonized as dangerous, unmarketable, or unheroic until his blond ex-wife was found slaughtered in her home. Suddenly he reverted into King Kong, a beastly Black brute that had to be destroyed. 

So yes, OJ was guilty of myriad sins and transgressions, and that may have probably included murder. The lingering dilemma these 30 years later isn't whether he killed his wife, but how his Blackness convinced people that he did it before any evidence was presented in court. How did he become the sole suspect, how did the police mishandle the investigation, or how might the world have reacted if the victim had been his first ex-wife? Do we pretend that none of those questions matter because it is more socially acceptable to insist that race was not a central reason why this case became such a BFD--that it was his celebrity and the gruesomeness of the crime?

Really? Because from where I sat and watched everything unfold, it was his race that allowed the LAPD to redirect attention from their misconduct (exposed and exploited by the defense team at trial), which ultimately that contributed to the acquittal. It matters that women still can't expect to receive any empathy when they are the victims of sexual violence, especially when their abuser is a famous man. It matters that there is and always has been a two-tiered system of justice that favors the affluent, in spite of the sanctimonious pronouncements that Justice is the great blind equalizer. It matters that some of y'all who are still mad about OJ Simpson being acquitted are going to boldly and unapologetically vote for another rich asshole who mistreats women to be President again...

Trojan Horses

If you studied any ancient folklore, computer science, or happened to see this Lunchables pretzel commercial, then you are probably familiar with the myth of the Trojan Horse. If not, then get thee to Google, and then come back here to read about these folks who think they we're too stupid to know who sent them and what manner of foolishness they plan to unleash if we let them into to the cookout. We see you, boo. 

Therefore, young lady from Trump's early April campaign stop at the Vine City Chick-fil-A, nice try, but there's a reason why your milkshake stunt didn't bring more folks from the Yard. We all knew that you were a GOP operative, and not some random customer because you were just a little too eager. Everybody knows that these kinds of campaign stops/photo opportunities are staged by both sides. Given that Trump isn't known for his ability to ignore hecklers or take a joke, of course, the "customers" needed to be his supporters or willing to appear as such on camera, lest it turn into a Biden church rally. However, you made a couple of unforced errors, starting with the choice to go to a fast-food place that serves fried chicken on Fried Chicken Wednesday! No wonder you couldn't entice more than a handful of students to leave their campuses. And whose bright idea was it to promote the fantasy of Trump as some kind of rich-man-of-the-people by ordering 10 milkshakes he didn't even pay for? 

Was that your entire paycheck for the month of April?

We can all see a blatant pander for votes coming from miles away, such as promising to cancel student loan debt or inviting the cast from A Different World to the White House. We aren't that naive, even though the Vice President happens to be an alum of Howard University, located a few subway stops uptown. And yeah, we'll concede that the announcement of President Biden giving the commencement address at Morehouse might be another stunt to secure the Black Mother of the Church vote. However, other than making a quick campaign drive by at a Chick-fil-A franchise near six HBCU campuses, what else has Trump done to cultivate Black voters? He touts his strong support of HBCU funding as an accomplishment of his Administration, yet his reluctance to actually visit one where he could have met with that same handful of College Republicans is...more authentic?

Presuming that someone who actually wants our votes (and not fighting tooth and nail to have them disqualified or suppressed) would make a more substantive or genuine effort that doesn't reinforce certain stereotypes, consider that the audience for this stunt was not undecided or ambivalent Black people. This Trojan Horse was sent to reassure Trump's base that he is still viable, especially if he was willing to go to the hood for a handful of votes. He just pulled off a similar visit to a bodega in Harlem, so expect more of these I'm-a-victim-like-just-like-you popups if they appear to help his poll numbers.

Candace Owens is another wolf in sheep's clothing, conveniently free to speak for herself now after being fired from The Daily Wire. She claims to have always been pro-black (lowercase b), and she might have gotten away with that lie if she had done her exit interview with Sherri Shepherd instead of Charlamayne tha Clown...

We see you too, gurl. And nobody is buying your belated Saul-to-Paul conversion on the road to Damascus act if you didn't know that God is good all the time and all the time God is good. 

The Year of Magical Negroes

No, I hadn't seen that movie (at least not when I began writing this in the Spring*), but I understand the trope (thank you, Roy Wood, Jr.). Although some of you still seem confused...

Geordi LaForge,
not Levar Burton,
is the Magical Negro 

So allow me to break it down like this: it might feel super special to be that all-knowing Negro translator/soothsayer that white folks turn to and trust, but your job is NOT to diminish and/or misrepresent the culture. For example, you don't go out of your way to agree that pumpkin pie is superior to sweet potato pie, because it ain't! Nor do you need to engage in that kind of debate--let them enjoy their overpriced pumpkin spice whatever and just carry on. We've got bigger issues.

Thus, when a certain sportswriter strayed way out of his lane to explain the history of Lift Ev'ry Voice and its designation as the Negro National Anthem to a bunch of trolls on El Muscato's internet platform even though Google is still free...

First of all, let me start by saying that I have been waiting for just the right moment to address Jason Whitlock's fuckery for quite a while. I was aware of him, but not being that rabid a sports fan, I never bothered to delve that deeply into his work. Then I happened upon this ridiculous movie review he gave for The Woman King (2022) and wondered what Black woman shanked him and left him for dead, because whet? Thereafter, I was further annoyed that by clicking on that foolywang, more of his nonsensical musings kept showing up in my TL (thanks to them allowing the elongated muskrat to play with the buttons at HQ unsupervised). I knew it was just a matter of time before Whitlock would resurface to make ashy grunts again (maga)--his way of being relevant so that I would have a legitimate reason to respond. And I've finally got some time...

Since we, the Blacks, don't get to vet these magical negroes, we're already suspicious of them and their motives. There is always something not quite right--like being goth or vegan, which might be part of their charm; nevertheless, it ain't none of our business unless that quirkiness ventures beyond its designated area of influence. Meaning, we don't mind that the weird Black dude speaks Klingon as long as he doesn't try to convince us to try potato salad tastes better with raisins. 

Nobody asked for that, so (I repeat) in a world where Google is free, why would anybody decide that Jason Whitlock's self-loathing ass is a more credible resource on Black culture and history? Especially when several other learned and credentialed Black people had already provided factual information on the topic...unless the point was to stoke more faux outrage, sow discord, and seek engagement. The very idea that Whitlock sent out that white power-washed history of Lift Ev'ry Voice that received 3000 likes, as if he stayed up all night binging old Boondocks episodes to get that Uncle Ruckus impression just right, is a level of tomfuckery that requires new words <-- see what I did there?

Such is the problem with magical negroes. Working for the Black community doesn't offer the same amenities or benefits, so it is understandable why the promotion from regular to magical is so alluring. As I have observed from my visits to the other side, they got nice stuff over there...but they have made it clear that there is a quota. No redundancies or aspirations, so once a magical realizes how lucky they are, the rest of us can go straight to hell. 

When the Words Don't Come

This is one of the pieces I started but never got even halfway through because life kept on lifing (and yes, I have adopted that as my default reason for everything). The main reason why I am returning to publish now is because it captures a unique turning point in my grief journey from this summer--right before the world turned inside out. After the page break, I am writing in real time again, so hopefully that will make this come together. --ADH

It has been a LONG time since I posted anything to this blog. I am still here, trying to sort everything out, but it is taking me longer than expected. I have so many unfinished drafts, so many stray thoughts, so much chaos and crazy going on inside my head. I don't know where to begin.

This is not an excuse. I am just not sure if I can focus long enough to complete anything right now. I am distracted, I am grieving, I am overwhelmed...I am lost. And I don't know how else to express any of what I am feeling, so I will just freestyle and hit publish even if this is the worst, most vulnerable piece of crap I've ever written. Here goes...

I am not as okay as I think I am on most days. I don't know if that makes much sense, but in essence, I put on my big girl panties every day to face the world, and then night comes, and I can't tell you if I seized it or if I squandered it. I haven't begun to deal with all of the final stuff I am supposed to handle with respect to my Mom. I haven't sent off half the Thank You notes. I didn't send half of the Father's Day cards with Thank You Notes because I got caught up in trying to make it to the end of the school year. I still have unsold Girl Scout cookies. I haven't gone back to my house for more than a few hours because I don't have the mental energy to combat unnecessary chaos. 

I cannot believe this is the first day of summer. 

I did do laundry. I did label most of the Kid's stuff for her first sleepaway camp starting in ten days. I did order the Hub a nice Father's Day gift that he seemed to appreciate. I do manage to take a shower every day.

On Sunday, I was in the kitchen chopping veggies and prepping for an impromptu family gathering, and it dawned on me that I am now the de facto matriarch of this band of feral cats. And in this most thankless role, it means that I need to think about everyone in this family, while they get to decide whether to completely ignore me. I mean that in the most complimentary way because the one person who does notice is my Dad. And he is part of the reason why I haven't completely given up.