The Braidy Bunch

     I'm just trying to remember when it sounded like a good idea. All I know is that there was a lot of peer pressure involved and it escalated into an "I will if you will" and the next thing you know, my roommate Liz and I have committed to getting braids. And we shook on it.
     Over the course of the next few days, there was much talk about the hair (to the great consternation of our male friends). But there were a lot of questions.Would we get our real hair braided or would we go with extensions? What color? Straight or curly? Actual braids or twists? So many decisions to make in what was meant to be an impulsive choice.
     The fateful day arrived and, petting our precious hair, we trudged towards the "salon". Stall, really. The stylist, Theresa, looked at us and tried not to laugh when we told her what we were there for. She went through the specs of what we wanted; braids vs. twists, how small, how long, etc. I just kept asking her which one would look better and she kept shrugging and laughing which was super encouraging. We were then directed to the wall of weaves. Oh boy. So many dark colors. So many shades of.... black. Okee then. Ooh I spy a red! Like Little Orphan Annie red. Hmmm. Oh, there's a very very dark brown over there. Just kidding, it's a light black. Then I see it; an auburn packet of synthetic hair hiding behind midnight's and ivory's whispering, "Hey Sam. Let's be real. None of these are going to look good on you or come anywhere close to your natural color. Your hair isn't even a real color. Choose me, and I'll be as least offensive as possible."
     So, I put my trust in this little packet of fake hair. Of course, dark-haired Liz had quickly found a shade that matched her chocolate hair perfectly. That poop in the butt.
     We took our seats in the plastic lawn chairs with an inscription that I'm told means "Accept God". An appropriate suggestion for young girls about to surrender any last vestiges of dignity regarding their outward aesthetic. Theresa rips open the new hair and we begin.
      My only task throughout the process (aside from not weeping in pain) is to separate small braid-sized chunks from the mane of extensions in my hand. Why is it so difficult for me? Every time, Theresa goes to grab my offering, she sighs and must either add to or take away from the chunk I've prepared. Sawwy.
     The mating of my sun-fried dishwater hair to its new bold lover is quite intimate. The strands dance together, weaving in and out until they stretch down my back in perfect unison. Theresa's hands are so nimble.She braids like 30 long strands in half the time it would take me to fumble out a Dorothy-do.
      Every so often, I check in with Liz. We tell one another that we're lookin good, though we know that if the others progress is any indication of our own,  the situation is quite dire.
     For the record, "micro" braids means small braids. May seem obvious, but I had to have it explained to me. This is nice in theory, but in practice it means that only a few strands of hair with the diameter of a piece of yarn are included in each braid.  So despite Theresa the Terminator's speedy fingers, it is a v e r y  s l o w process. This also means there are about a million braids on my head. I'm exaggerating. There are actually 237.
     Night falls. Friends stop by with nourishment. My tushie has fallen asleep. I am thinking about the time Kendra and I died our hair in eighth grade and the cornrows in Cabo and how it is that Aunt April's salon is so comfy and OW. Jamal estimates that I am only 60% done. Shoot me in the face.
     Bush Canteen, the market in which we are being tortured, is shutting down for the day. Women carry pots of leftover soup out to the street. A man sweeps the hair remains away from the path. The seamstress closes her doors. We braid on.
    I'm thinking about the tan American girls wearing their beads with their weaves and traditional cloth and the Ghanaians in their sweater vests and the Carotene commercials and how funny it is that we try so hard to look like each other. But that we seem to just miss one another en route. I always thought it was so silly. And now, here I am.
     Suddenly, in my delirious, half-conscious trance, I hear a familiar voice cry, "Samantha, last one!" I come to and find that my head weighs a great deal more than my body. I start to leap up from the chair when, to my great dismay, I learn there is more still to be done.
     First, braid by freaking braid, we must snip, snip, snip the little frayed pieces. 237 snips later, Theresa leaves and comes back with a candle. I figure it's dark, she just needs to see. Oh, nope. Nope, that's a hair product. She is now setting my hair on fire. As if the red color doesn't already conjure up enough inferno images, my braids are now actually ablaze. This cannot possibly be good for my real hair wherever it is now in this mass of garden snakes crawling down my neck. Eventually, she puts out the fire, there is some more snipping, some really hot water, and then, finally, SEVEN HOURS LATER, it is finished.
      Theresa says I can go look in the mirror. As I stand, my pal Liz, ever-bright beacon of hope and encouragement, tells me that I look "special". I carry this confidence into the mirror room where-

wow.

WOW.

I look like the love child of E.T. and Moesha.  Oh boy. Upon closer examination, I realize how much I underestimated the whiteness of my scalp. That glowing orb pierces through with an unfortunate intensity. Okay, I can't look at this any longer. I pop back outside and while waiting for Liz, ask some seemingly simple hair-care questions.

"So, how do I wash this?"

"No."

"Um, I mean, like when I shower do I shampoo in between the braids or..."

"You don't shower."

"Mmkay."

Liz's braids go up in flames.

"One more question. So, if it rains, I just..."

"It can't get wet. It will mildew."

     So my hair is now capable of growing fungus. Liz finishes. I tell her she's special (hers, of course, looks far better with a really uncanny resemblance to Cleopatra that she refuses to acknowledge). We walk back in stunned silence, trying to build each other up before we face our friends.

     Our spirits lifted of course when we whipped our hair to Willow Smith's song on repeat and started to discover the many different configurations into which we could mold our new do's.  I found out that a headband really helps my scalp problem!  

    It was not long after before the itching began. It has been incessant ever since, but I am trying to look at like a character study. You know, in case, a director ever actually follows through with color-blind casting or if I'm ever called upon to play a small child with chicken pox on her head.

    Liz and I are adjusting to this new way of life. Today's task was learning to go for a run without toppling over. Perhaps tomorrow I will attempt a pony-tail that doesn't break my rubber bands. Baby steps. Do I feel a bit gross without shampooing? Totally. Do I have to study lying down because I can't hold my head up? Yep. Am I torn between sprinting to and from buildings for fear my hair will mold and walking as slowly as possible in order to tan my pasty scalp? Definitely. Do I look a little bit like a Klingon? Yeah. I really do.  But I feel like a new person. I really enjoy whipping my hair and having a hair color that needn't be prefaced with sandy, dirty or dishwater. In fact, I'm afraid braids might be a bit of a gateway. Perhaps tomorrow I'll get a tat on my face.