“You need no excuse here, and actually, some will support you more for coming off that way. New York is a different ball game from Greenwood. Everybody comes here for status. You have all these opportunities to be whatever you want. Once you find your fashion, it makes everything better.” Daisy reached up to pick gently at the naps in my hair. “We could start with a haircut.”
I wasn’t opposed! I wasn’t much of a looker—my teeth were buck and my frame too small to be considered handsome—but someday I might want to impress someone in Harlem.
“Okay,” I said with a sigh. “I think I’m ready.” If I was to find the life inside me once again, I wasn’t going to discover it hidden away in this house.
Daisy smiled with a satisfaction that told me this was all according to plan—she’d gotten me out of bed. “I’ll see if we can get you an appointment today,” she said.
I felt like an alien among Harlem’s stoops, but I was absorbed by this unique way of entering a home, and by how tall this city’s buildings were—how they reached for the sky.
We took a cab to East 128th. My head was in a whirl taking it all in! New York was loud as a live-music gig at any given moment. Pedestrians ran in front of cars and forced them toadapt. Newsboys shouted at passing people about coupon vouchers to see concerts. Screaming matches would break out, then were quickly resolved, as if they never happened.
The cab stopped at our destination, and Daisy held my arm as we ran across the street to a salon called Queen of Hair. It was for ladies—that much was evident from the deep sinks and vanities, mirrors, and apparatuses for careful grooming. And then there were the ladies, sitting under domed dryers and reading magazines, their legs crossed or their feet resting in tubs of hot water.
In one of the chairs, a girl was sitting with her legs up over the side, a magazine in her face.
“Nick, this is Vivian,” Daisy announced.
Vivian dropped the magazine. She had a face full of makeup—deep crimson lipstick and high-arched brows. Her posture held the confidence of someone who didn’t care what you thought of her. She fluffed her big curly hair before holding out her hand. “How do you do, Nick?”
“Some boys said Nick’s hairline was crooked,” Daisy explained, without a care to my pride. “Do you have time to fix it?”
She spun around and opened the drawers behind her. “Um... I’m a bit out of practice on boys but I could see what I can do.” Vivian pulled out a pair of clippers, turned them on, and almost fumbled them because of how hard they buzzed. “Oh, wow.”
“Don’t worry,” Daisy said, winking at me. “She’s a professional—I promise!”
Funny, she sure didn’t look like one.
“Yeah, don’t you worry,” Vivian said. “I’m gonna fix you rightup. It’s only a dollar for a texturizer, and you’ll need one.”
I switched spots with her to sit, and she reared my chair back as another stylist came to work on Daisy.
“Is it going to burn?” I asked. “I’ve heard they fry hair.”
Daisy reclined and said, “Don’t worry, Nick. It’ll look great with your texture.”
As Daisy’s stylist peppered her with questions, Vivian popped her gum, slathered white cream on my hair with a paintbrush, and looked to me to fill the void of conversation. “First day of finishing school hair, I assume?”
I met her matter-of-fact gaze in the mirror. “Oh, I don’t go to school,” I said.
“Good for you,” Vivian returned with more enthusiasm than expected. “Ever since I devoted my life to the streets, I’ve been much happier. That’s what it takes tosurvivein New York City. You get your main job and your street hustle.”
I felt a strange mix of respect and fear. “When you saystreet, what do you mean, exactly?”
“She means nothing!” Daisy interrupted, her eyes darting around nervously. “But on that note, Nick, have you given some thought to what you’ll be doing while you’re here?”
It wasn’t something I’d thought much on. I hadn’t been able to think much at all.
“I feel like I’m still trying to get my thoughts in order,” I said, my voice low.
“Well, if you want to study, there’s this new academy, West Egg, that’s accepting Negro boys.” Daisy closed her eyes as herstylist tipped her chair back and washed her hair. “It’s private.”
“Private?”
“It means they only take the sharpest minds from the bunch, so your application’s gotta be spotless. When I applied to their sister school, I made sure to mention Grandpa founding theLangston Herald—a Negro journalist? They ate that right up. I’m on the track for maids, which means I’ll be placed in a wealthy man’s house, getting a front-row seat to how the other half lives. Their food, their habits—I’ll know it all. Right now, I’m working toward a full-time spot at Tom Buchanan’s estate. He’s big in real estate. Once you’re in at West Egg, Nick, the right connections can take you anywhere!”
All of this sounded truly lovely yet empty. I’d never wanted to be rich—not really. Just comfortable. “Yeah,” I said. “I mean, I guess I could try? Why not?”
“And if it doesn’t work out, there are always other opportunities!” Something outside the window caught Daisy’s attention. “Oh, look what the cat’s drug in. Anna May! Back to throw more pennies at the poories!”
