The air was overpowered by the scent of freshly made West African fish stew. I took a seat in the least rickety-looking swivel chair and reached for one of the dated hair magazines in the little stand next to the chair. No one else was in the salon except for Patience, the Liberian secretary who had brought me to the shop. Not long after, a plump lady with a pleasant face came through the side door using a towel to wipe her hands. She and Patience greeted each other with the familiarity that West Africans tended to greet each other abroad. A familiarity which I admired. Patience said something to the lady speaking softly in Pidgin or Igbo, or some other African dialect which I did not understand. I removed a mint from my bag and placed it inside my mouth, desperately trying to keep my stomach settled.

“Madam this my sistah, she will make your hair fine o,” Patience said.
She came over and started removing the elastic band that I had used to hold my semi-natural hair together. I was in the early stages of transitioning and my roots were coarse which made my hair puffy. The plump lady took over and was trying to run her fingers through my hair. She said something to Patience in their dialect which caused Patience to attempt to run her fingers through my hair as well. I looked up at them through the mirror and knew that it was the texture, my densely coiled 4C texture was going to be a challenge.

“Madam, you want small-small plait?”
“No, I want medium-sized cornrows.”

The plump lady took up a tail comb and attempted to section my hair in quarters. She held her face in a grimace as she forced the comb through my roots.

“Ah, your hair is very strong.”

I smiled coyly, not knowing if this was a compliment or criticism. Patience was standing with her arms akimbo and looked as if she wanted to say something, but she was not sure what to say. I held my head firmly as the plump lady began to use a comb attached to the nozzle of a blow-dryer to rake through my head. The room was already hot but with the blow-dryer releasing more heat over my face, I found it challenging to breathe.

I touched her hand and said, “Can you turn on the AC please, it is really hot.”

She did not hear what I had said, and I had to repeat. There was a hum coming from the AC but there was the absence of breeze.

“Patience go and see the Harris, tell him the AC is not working.”
Patience turned and left. The plump lady started muttering in creole but would make frequent audible interjections of “nonsense.”
“Towel, I did not give you towel.”
She went around the back and quickly returned with a towel which she threw over my shoulders.
“Sorry for the heat o.” I nodded and she continued speaking but this time in African creole.

“I speak English.”
“Ah! Where in Africa are you from?”
“I am not from Africa”
“You American?”
“I am from Jamaica”
“You Jamaique?” I nodded as her eyes lit up.
“Jamaique has fine runners and Bob Marley. We Africans love Bob Marley.”
She shook her body as she started singing ‘One Love.’ I nodded feeling pleased with myself that I had found a connection with her. A connection which I hoped would motivate her to pull my hair less vigorously.
“You still African. You still my sistah.”

Patience returned with the scroungy looking Harris who was either from Sri Lanka or Bangladesh or India. He stood and looked up at the AC quizzically as if he was using his eyes to will it to work. Without asking, he pulled a chair and stood on it to meet the height of the AC unit. He placed the back of his hand over the air vents and gave a loud hiss at the lack of breeze. He used his hands to beat on the sides, releasing clouds of dust in the air. The plump lady shouted something at him in the rough Arabic she had picked up along the way. The Harris got down from the chair and responded to her in his unpolished version of Arabic. He left the room, closing the door with a bang. The room was left in silence except for the white-noise from the blow-dryer going through my hair.

“You have extension?”
“No. Patience told me I could buy it here.”
“You need three packs.”
“Give me three packs of 1B.”
“All 1B? Color will make it nicer.”

I shook my head and told her that 1B matched my natural hair color. She shrugged her shoulders then used a key attached to a string around her neck to open a glass cabinet at the back of the salon. She took out the three packs of hair and closed the cabinet. Her eyes widened and her lips folded as she used the tail of the comb to make lines from my forehead to the nape of my neck.
“Bump or no bump?”
I did not understand the question and asked her to explain.
“You want bump at the front, or no bump at the front?”
“No bump.”

Patience was sitting on the handle of the chair next to mine and was preparing the extension for application. The plump lady stood on her tiptoes as she grasped my hair to start the process of cornrowing.
“Not so tight.”
“Madam, your hair is very strong. I have to make tight or it won’t be nice.”
“That’s alright, I don’t want it tight.”
She loosened her hold and started working her fingers through my hair while Patience handed her bits of extension. They were once again speaking heartily in creole and I pretended as if I was not curious to know what they were saying. After making about three cornrows at the side of my head, the plump lady picked up a cushion that was in a chair close by and placed it on the ground at my feet.
“Sistah, you sit there, and I sit here.”
“I can’t sit there. I am pregnant.”
I was in the first trimester of pregnancy with my son and was barely showing. I now wonder if I would have sat on the cushion on the floor if I was not pregnant.
The ladies clapped in elation at the news.
“You need to eat.”
“I am not hungry,” I said.
The first and second trimesters of my pregnancy were difficult. I was nauseous for most of the time and had little desire for food.
“Wait. I give you rice and fish stew.”

Without being told, Patience went through the door from which the plump lady had come. She returned with a bowl of rice and fish stew. I touched the plump lady’s hand, a signal which I used to tell her to loosen her hold. Patience scooped up a spoon of rice soaking in fish gravy and attempted to shove it inside my mouth. I pursed my lips and swung my head side to side.

“Eat madam, good for the baby.”
I did not want to seem rude, so I opened my mouth and Patience fed me the food. I chewed slowly, forcing the food to go down and stay down. The food was nicely flavoured and I took a few more spoonsful before I pointed on the water bottle I had in my lap.

“I am full now,” I said after I had drunk some water.
“Ah! You eat like small-small child.”

Patience did not force anymore in my mouth. She sat in a chair and devoured what was left of the food hastily. I left to use the toilet and when I returned the plump lady was sitting in a chair, having a bowl of rice and fish stew.
“Give me five minutes, okay”

I nodded and started to stare at my image in the mirror.
“Sistah, you watch African movie? I have Blood Sistah and Beyonce.”
I said no and continued staring at my face that was beginning to get unrecognizable with the swellings of pregnancy. The women were talking in the background in low tones.

“Ah! These Nigerian men lie o,” Patience said loudly while slapping her hands against her thighs.

I cocked my ears trying to hear whatever they were talking about, but they were speaking in creole. When the plump lady returned to my hair, she made a remark about how hardened the undone section had become despite being blown out.

“You need to make relaxer, sistah.”
I did not know what to say and stared at her as she spoke.
“When you take down braids, come back and I make relaxer for you.”

I nodded my head although I was almost sure I was not going to come back for a relaxer. (Which I eventually got but at a closer Ghanaian salon). I was getting uncomfortable with sitting upright for such a long time and started fidgeting in the chair. Patience had gone out and had not yet returned. The plump woman thought my fidgeting was associated to a headache and sought to make it better.

“Sistah I give you Panadol.”
“I am fine. I just want to lay down.”
“I make these quickly and let you go.”
After thinking for a while, she asked, “You live in Mahboula?”
“I live in Jabriya.”
“You live far o.”
Her phone rang and she spoke loudly into the device in creole. She was pulling my hair too tightly, but I did not touch her hand, she seemed to be already having enough problems on the other end of the line. I winced and brought my shoulders up to my ears.
“Sorry o, sorry.”
She placed the mobile back in her pocket and brought back her attention to me.
“You give birth in Kuwait or go to America?”
“Kuwait,” I said.
“Kuwaiti doctor no good. Egyptian better.”
She made hacking sounds as if she was clearing phlegm from her throat.
“You should breastfeed the baby. Breastfeeding is very good.”

I nodded.
Nothing else was said between us until Patience returned and handed me a bottle of juice, which I had not asked her to buy but which I appreciated greatly.
“Madam, you are almost done. I know one Bangladeshi driver; I call him for you.”
Patience made the call and instructed the driver to come in 30 minutes. The plump lady sent her to turn on the kettle while she used a pair of scissors to trim the fly-away hairs. Patience came back and stood beside the plump woman, admiring my hair.

“Your hair is very nice, madam. Sir will love you like this.”
I felt patronized by the statement but smiled in approval at Patience’s compliment which I would have called ignorant if it had come from another race. After a few minutes, the bubbling sound of the kettle was replaced by a low whistle which meant that the water was ready. I was about to get up and go to the sink, but the plump woman told me to remain seated in the swivel chair.
“Sistah, lean back.”
I leaned over with the middle of my head resting in the top of the chair.
“I fix you.”
She came around to the side and used her hands to slide me down until my buttocks was in the middle of the chair.
“Relax sistah, you won’t fall.”
I closed my eyes as she held up a basin to meet the hanging hair. Patience poured the hot water over the extension, the heat of which scalded my scalp. The plump woman used a towel that she had dipped in the hot water to massage the cornrows at the top of my head. The towel was too hot at times and burned her fingers as well as my head.

“Madam sit up, your hair is done,” Patience said.
The plump woman used a dry towel to squeeze the excess water from my hair. She reached for the green bottle of spray sheen, the vapors of which she sprayed in my head.
“How much will it be?” I asked as I reached for my handbag.
“I give you African price, not American price.”

I don’t remember what that African price was but I paid her and thanked her for her service. Patience walked with me to the entry of the apartment, stepping over cat feces in the passageway. The Bangladeshi taxi came, a smiling man whose identification card that hung from the back of the driver’s seat to face the passengers in the back identified as Muhammad. Patience poked her head in through the passenger window and spoke to him using an authoritative tone.
“This my sistah and she go to Jabriya. She pay you three Kuwaiti dinar, no more.”

Muhammad smiled and nodded as she spoke.
“Madam take care and only give him three dinars. If he wants more, call me.”
The car drove away, and I stared in the rear-view mirror at my hair that was done so lovely it would cause my husband to love me.

Written by Sandrene Jackson

Sandrene is a Jamaican creative who hopes to leave the world a little better than how she entered it. She has lived in different countries to include Kuwait and now lives in Switzerland with her husband and children.