Stripped

I walk into the salon and gingerly take off my sunglasses crinkling my nose to the pungent smell of hair dye and nail polish remover. The combination does nothing to mask the stench of athlete’s feet, much as the sound of hand driers blasting away at clients’ hair cannot compete against the conundrum of chatter that is very typical at 1^st avenue F’ close house 20 Festac Town. The posh little hair salon called “Dina's Hair Secret” is a lot more like a market place than beauty parlor really.

I own this place and yet sometimes I feel like I have absolutely no control over whatever’s done here. I let the staff chat away at stupid random topics all day long because somehow they still manage to keep our clients satisfied. What can I say; we’re not terrible at what we do here anyway. We offer the best services in pedicures, haircuts and nail/hair conditioning to a high profile clientele. We keep celebrity women happier than any of their men ever could, after all we cater to their most delicate needs: Yes, beautiful hair and healthy nails. I like to say “We” because I believe that my salon maintains the top spot through team work although the clients beg for my deft hands when they want life returned to their lack luster hair. I personally trained my crew and even though I wish they would just shut the hell up and work, I have to say they always deliver professional services on principle. Accompanied by hot gossip of course. Apparently, these society ladies are not so polished that they could pass up on shameless gossip with the hairdressers.

Everyday feels the same to me at this place after eight years. That’s hardly plausible considering that my crew always brings fresh drama with them from stolen boyfriends to character differences. But all that excitement just floats by me as I sit in my royal chair everyday staring into the mirror until the clients start to throw a fit about how I have to be the one to cut their hair or fix their nails.

Sat in my thinking chair, I look into the mirror and I see me. Clients are walking around the place with their bizarre hairstyles and fabulous jewelry.

 And all I see is me.

With my copper red hair dyed one too many times falling over my chocolate brown face I am quite a shocking sight. Today I’m wearing a bright yellow blouse which makes me a hypocrite because it exudes the confidence I certainly don’t feel anymore. The confidence that once was the essence of my being. Not a smug, obnoxious confidence as with celebrities and runway models. It was a quiet reassured confidence that said I was ready for whatever the world was going to throw at me. It used to be in my eyes.

‘Monalisa eyes’ my husband would say. While the world debated the legendary smile on that famous portrait, David thought the eyes were more interesting. He said that they looked like they knew a secret for which wise men would grope endlessly but never find out. That’s the kind of confidence he saw in my eyes. “What lies before or behind you is nothing compared to what lies within you” he would always say to me. God bless him, David. He’s a good man. The only person who understands that in life there is a time to be skinny and a time to be an overweight mom.

Now I stare into the mirror and hope to see those Mona Lisa eyes. No. Only a pair of old eyes stare back at me. Eyes aged from unshed tears of disappointment and shattered dreams.

I pick up a comb to begin the daily task of idly combing what’s left of my once thick head of hair. As I comb slowly from front to back I take a good look at myself. At 45 my face is lined with such deep wrinkles as is unnatural for a woman my age. But these are not age imposed wrinkles. They are scars for every significant life event that took away a piece of me and left a reminder. With my face like a map you could trace deaths and near-deaths like my first son’s car accident. I wear my life’s battles proudly on this face.

I look down at my torso and I remember my last child once coming home from school crying because a boy said I looked like the fat witch Ursula from the little mermaid. Silly boy. I look nothing like her. That silver white hair would never work for me and plus I would never wear black. It’s too depressing. With my 315 pounds I wear bright colors boldly, flabby arms, and muffin tops notwithstanding.

The sound of a client’s shrill laughter draws my attention to the woman sitting in the pedicure chair behind me. Oh her. She’s a TV personality and every time she comes into the salon she brings all her antics with her. Look at her, look at all of them judging me and wondering what happened to the beautiful woman they once knew. Tsk tsk skinny people! Come back when you’ve had four kids and a stay-at-home career and we’ll see how many extra pounds you’ve managed to keep off. Until I started up this hair salon I had no other job than to look after my family and I daresay that’s been just about enough work. So what I had a psychology degree, so what I had dreams of being a singer or talk show host or whatever. All that changes when you get married in Nigeria. What’s more to a very traditional Nigerian man as my beloved husband is. You hit the pause button on your life until you can sit in front of the mirror to ask yourself “where did my life go” as I do every day in this salon.

I’ve heard that regret is quite horrible to taste. I wouldn’t know, I’m not particularly familiar with the taste of regret. Even as I think of how I would have been happier slaving away at a 9-5 job rather than sit around staring in the mirror. Even as I resent these gorgeous vibrant women who strut around here deliberately to remind me that they are everything I am not. Even as I can almost not recognize this fat woman in the mirror with scanty hair and soulless eyes. I feel no regret. I married a man who has never stopped loving me and we raised four blessed children together. Who says I have lost my confidence. Why do I still wear bright colors when I could easily hide behind black to cover up my rolls? Where did I get the nerve to dye my hair a vivacious red?

Oooouch!!!

“What are you doing?” I scream at the young girl who has just cut my toe in the bid to remove my nail cuticle.

“Sorry ma ejo ma bi nu I am sorry” She pleads as I stare her down with daggers in my eyes.

“Nonsense, that’s what happens when you will be gisting instead of paying attention to the work you are doing” I spit in anger for the injury inflicted on my poor toe but more so for being so painfully jolted out of my telepathic psychoanalysis with the salon owner Mrs. Adigun. Sat in the pedicure chair behind her I watched her idly comb her hair as she always does and tried to get into her head. She always seems so deep in thought and I imagine all the possible things she could be thinking. She had stolen glances at me with a sour look and that intensified my curious assessment of her. Over weight and unattractive she would sit in that chair all day staring into the mirror. From behind I had managed to catch the look in her eyes.

It reminded me of the Mona Lisa.

This woman fascinates me for some reason. I find her to be a representation of the typical Nigerian woman her age. Yet she seems to have transcended all convention with her funny red hair and bright colored clothes. She is the reason I choose to come to this salon every week, in my head I always hold telepathic interviews with her almost as if it were me sitting in that chair staring in the mirror. Today’s session is ended thanks to this stupid employee of hers who won’t shut up about her boyfriend and focus on her work.

Maybe next week…….