Upon reading the title of this piece, you might be thinking a range of things from “Oh Lord, somebody touched somebody’s hair.” Earphones in, starts playing…

Or that I should get paid back for any time spent educating. Maybe, monetary reimbursement could cover the cost of the curl moisturizer I bought. You may be expecting that some folks were put in their places and that in the process it stung. A sting that led to self-deprecating thoughts such as “Why couldn’t I have been born with ‘good hair?’”or  “How could they be so ignorant?” You, yourself, may even be wondering what a beauty supply store is and if I mean Ulta, Sephora, or Target. No, to all of those things. Not this time. 

I found myself in a desolate part of Staten Island. The forgotten borough, I see Wikipedia has nicknamed it. I followed my friends on an adventure to a Paul Mitchell School where they got $18 haircuts from stylists in training. The air was brisk with precision… and recently chopped ends. As certain employees greet or sweep, they hummed a few lines of the popular radio songs that played in the background. I read a book by Howard Thurman called Jesus and the Disinherited that a wonderful person gave me. I sat for two hours watching and waiting. I absorbed more content than the words on the pages, I’m intrigued by the salon. A place where people go to maintain an outer appearance, but as with most things it is deeper than that.

On the sidelines, I captured a few photos of their ‘before’ hair styles, and I await to take pictures of their ‘afters’. I joked that I would play the role of their agent and would have to speak with the stylist prior to any major decisions. Perhaps it was my way of relating to an experience I would not be getting myself. I wanted to come, so this is no shade or sips tea to Jade, Jessica, or Maddie. 

Truthfully, I was only there a couple of hours and for all I know black and brown women with natural hair flock in and out of the salon every other day of the week. But from my vantage point, the salon doesn’t do my kind of hair. One black girl was getting her hair straightened, but that doesn’t indicate to me that the stylist can handle versatility. Maybe they would even charge me more than $18 for the hassle. In the meantime, I spent several minutes pouring through Google maps, asking random brothas and sistas what the spots are in Staten Island, all while feeling like a weird ‘other’ compared to my friends. In an internal dialogue, I tell myself that this day is for physical care so I am determined.

I finally found a store. I tell the girls and they are more than willing to go with me. 1) I’m surprised because it is a separate trip just for me and is slightly out of our way. 2) They actually seem excited not just to support me, but to visit the store itself. I’m practically skipping my way there, excited to explain the difference between the type of combs they use and the types of combs I need. That a regular bar of Dove soap ain’t gonna work for my skin and needs to replaced by the African black soap I love. That natural raw shea butter isn’t always available depending on the region and that I must stock up! Braid extensions? See the bundles that stream across the high walls. I hear one of them say “Is it okay if I ask stupid questions?” I enthusiastically replied, “Yes!” Hair can become interlocked with identity for many black women. In this crown, comes investments of energy, pride, money, and pain. I never heard that my hair was gorgeous growing up, in fact it was only a couple of months ago that someone told me for the first time. I wasn’t convinced she was talking to me until I looked at her and saw her staring back. That’s why if you do something dumb like walk up and touch someone’s hair like you would pet that cute puppy you see on the street, it’s very disrespectful. This would be the first time I would shop for myself with white friends other than my mom. I prepared myself for disappointment in advance.

As we get closer, I recognized the street. I visited two years ago after Eric Garner was killed by police to mourn his death. I warn the friends I’m with now to be aware of the atmosphere we are entering as outsiders. I visualize the scenes of a man saying “I can’t breathe” as he is choked unnecessarily. Life taken away from him in an instant replaying on social media and news stations. On the streets, we are greeted by older gentlemen on front steps. I feel welcome again and back to reality, I walk head tilted higher. Arriving at the store, Google Maps said, I open the door, noticing as I do that at the very entrance lay the memorial. The different spaces I occupy immediately converge. With the same tears that welled in my eyes two years ago, I am fearful of what this means for black men and women in this country. A tale that continues, a tale that has always been. How many more “I can’t breathes” since Eric Garner? Too many to count. At the same time, I’m joyous because I am experiencing something that I love alongside friends. The very friends, and parts of myself, that benefit from the privilege of our skin colors though we don’t deserve to breathe any more than anyone else. Said a prayer, and marched onward. Lord, have mercy, the work to be done.

In the store, I glide from aisle to aisle. They follow and listen. I’m surprised by how much I know, I just learned most of this stuff myself. In Jersey, I soak in the knowledge of my friends and roommates as we literally transform our dorms to in-home salons (shoutout to Jada, Ileanie, and Esi). 

I purchase my items and we leave. I feel seen and I am heard. Not by any miraculous discount, but by an unexpected group. I generally experience dissonance and resistance when I am the only _______ (fill in the blanks). My walls are up and I’m on the defensive because my fear is that I will be misunderstood. They will never know what it’s like so before they can hurt or offend, I’ve judged them and shut down opportunities. Fixing their ignorance becomes my project. What do you do when you can no longer see the person anymore because you’ve spent so much time trying to prove yourself and protect other black women? Fully exposed, down to the soap I use to wash my body, I can’t contain the emotions that are bursting at the seams. It was too good this time!

I sit here a week later and imagine how much more Jesus sees and hears me. There is a threshold to what people can actually do to make me feel affirmed. (Thank you Jessica and Jessica for these words of wisdom). He healed something in me that day because since then I have been gentler with myself and tender with others. I can give grace when people mess up because I too must receive it every day. At the very same time as he is redeeming this story, including what it looks like to have white friends, He offers me a greater gift. How much more He must love me?! So I hold on to these moments knowing there will always be more He wants to give.

When I do give in to getting my nails done or a face mask, a brief period of excitement takes over. And I will sit for 7 hours while a friend or myself braids my hair every once in a blue moon. I am taking care of my body and it radiates! But when something touches your soul and spirit, it can move the very mountains that seemed impossible to climb like white people celebrating and lamenting in an authentic way. Education policy didn’t change, it won’t solve the police brutality that killed Eric Garner, and my value didn’t increase or decrease. But it does affect relationships, where restoration and reconciliation can also happen. 

Staten Island may be the “forgotten borough” but we, as individuals, are not forgotten.