Relaxer risks: Should black women be blaming our beauticians, perm manufacturers or ourselves?
Who came up with the four- to six-week rule for perms anyway?
I walked in the beauty salon, waved at my new beautician and sat down to wait my turn. Per usual, this woman insisted I make an appointment for a specific time, and I ended up sitting around like a museum exhibit for over an hour. I didn’t even have a “Checker Fred” to pass the time playing Checkers. (“Barbershop” movie watchers will understand that reference.)
When my beautician finally waved me over, she immediately tried to increase my rate from a wash and style to a relaxer. I told her it’d been only about four weeks since I had a relaxer. She insisted that I must get a touch-up in order for the hairstyle I wanted to look good. I nodded and asked her to do something else. The immediate eye roll at me standing by the original price and not wanting to get a relaxer would’ve intimidated another 16-year-old. But I wasn’t budging.
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I’d been sitting in beauty salons since that first day my kindergarten teacher woke me up at nap time. After that one weekday, I dutifully got my hair done every two weeks on a Saturday morning, courtesy of my paternal grandmother.
Beautician tales
My first beautician was pretty cool, but she liked to eat chocolate chip cookies and smoke cigarettes while she did my hair. We didn’t last long. Then there was a second beautician who did my hair way better. But with beauty sometimes comes pain, and this was a pain I’d never forget.
She clearly saw that I had an open scratch on the back of my head. Without warning my grandmother that it was highly dangerous to put a chemical on an open wound, she slapped that relaxer creme on my head and went to work. I let out a shout and started crying. She just kept insisting that I “wait a minute” so it “could settle” and “be straight.”
My grandmother heard the commotion, looking first from my overly confident beautician to her bawling granddaughter. To my relief, the relaxer was washed out soon after, but it left a clear burn mark in the “kitchen” of my hair. I was furious. As a mouthy kid, I was struggling to follow my parents’ advice to not backtalk adults. I silently stewed, but I was cursing this lady out in my head. I don’t even think I looked to see if I liked the hairstyle by the end of that appointment.
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Around my freshman or sophomore year of high school, I started choosing my own beauticians — and standing up for my hair.
I don’t blame my grandmother. I blame some beauticians. They were constantly insisting that I get my hair relaxed no matter the style. Once it hit four weeks, they were trying to slap relaxer on my hair again. My grandmother wanted me to have a relaxer. So did my mother. I couldn’t have cared less. I just wanted to spend my Saturday mornings at Girl Scouts. On beauty salon days, I was more interested in eating chicken pot pies and playing random board games with my grandfather than I was getting split ends clipped, hair straightened, and leaving with fluffy ponytails and bangs.
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Beautician tales: Caring for my own hair
Around my teenage years, I cared about hair far more. By that time, I’d spent over a decade in beauty salons. I’d had another beautician (after the one who was furious I wouldn’t get a relaxer) who did amazing work. But then she up and quit to become a bus driver! Shortly after, my next beautician (who was good but not as good as the bus driver) said she wasn’t making enough money and quit to work for a car manufacturer. Why were my most talented beauticians leaving for the auto industry? Who knows!