“Then he gon’ ask me, in this sarcastic-ass tone, ‘would you rather be beautiful, or sensible—?’” Freeda yanked Chloe’s head back on the word “sensible,” her left hand leveraging two coarse locks of hair while the right hand fed the third vein into the train heading east from one ear to the other. The braids looped tightly back and forth over Chloe’s head, making her look a little older than her ten years and a little more interesting than the pervasive dullness that was ironically the most striking thing about her blackgirlhood. Chloe flinched with a nervous glee every time it hurt. She had overheard Aunt Mae say many times that “being pretty takes work,” and so, she was very proud of herself for bearing the burden of becoming beautiful.
Chloe had showed her cousin the elaborate basket-weave hairstyle in the Elle magazine and proceeded to beg for three weeks to have her hair cornrowed just like the girl in the picture, Amber Folade. Amber was the focus of an article about girls who had escaped female genital mutilation in Africa and were being given the chance of a new life in homes of American do-gooders across the United States. The program, SOSA—“Saving Our Sisters of Africa”—was started by a philanthropic, white woman in the Peace Corps. She was stationed in a place so far from civilization that she became outraged by some old women who subjected pubescent girls to ancient barbarism. Amber was a “success story” the article proclaimed, now thirteen and “doing well” in a small town in Connecticut where she was the “first African” to enroll in high school.
Chloe hadn’t read the article or the captions under the crying face of the beautiful Amber who “occasionally did miss home.” She was fixated on Amber’s hair and how it made her feel like she too could become that pretty if only her hair was like that. Chloe had immediately showed the picture to Aunt Mae who glanced at the matrix of braids as she fried the Saturday morning eggs and told her to ask Freeda, who would do it for her if she asked nicely. Aunt Mae hadn’t seen the title of the article, so she couldn’t snatch the mature content from her niece and have “that” talk with her about vaginas and marriage, which was really not her job as “auntie” anyway. In actuality, Chloe could not conceive of female genital anything, and didn’t even know that she too had the same thing that Amber had run away to save. It didn’t occur to Chloe that Amber—so thoroughly pressed into Chloe’s fantasy of everything that was beautiful and wonderful with the world—longed to be reunited with her mother as well.
Freeda ignored the pestering for three weeks until Chloe walked in on her boyfriend licking her clitoris while her mother was at choir rehearsal. Of course, Chloe had not seen any action that she could give a name too. She didn’t understand what Julius could have possibly been searching for that deep inside Freeda’s belly button. In fact, she was so startled by the awkward shape of Freeda and Julius’ bodies against the rumpled floral comforter that she forgot about the spider in the tub that had nearly given her a heart attack in the first place.
“Get out!” Freeda had yelled. Chloe felt so stupid. She had the impulse to pull up a chair and some popcorn and watch the spectacle that she was certain she’d never get to see up close again. But then also, in a terrifically terrifying way, she wanted to run and scream to get help for Freeda, or maybe for herself she wondered. Eventually she did close the door and return to the tub to kill the spider herself. She decided that smashing him between toilet paper would be too messy. Instead, she lured him onto the edge of the toilet seat and knocked him into the water. Instantly, she regretted the murder and wanted to undrown him. But he died quickly, and she flushed the toilet to avoid the sadness of yet another loss.
“What I tell you about knocking!” Freeda snapped from behind, reaching over Chloe to grab some q-tips for her ear. She was dressed in pajama clothes that she had thrown on in the process of rushing her boyfriend out the door, having lost track of time and the little cousin she was supposed to be watching. She was mad that her pleasure had been discovered by a kid. But really, she was more annoyed that the first thing Julius said after lathering his tongue in her wet pussy was that it was actually rather wasteful to spend money on pedicures, arched eyebrows and frilly panties when she was supposed to be saving money for a new car because he was tired of driving her everywhere.
“What you want anyway?” Freeda dug out any inklings of guilt and flung it into the trash can with the soiled q-tips.
“I saw a spider and I wanted you to come get it...I, I just forgot to knock. I’m sorry,” Chloe’s eyes groped the floor for something sensible to stare at, something that would reasonably be of attention to a little girl who did not just see what she saw. Somewhere deep inside her pitiful life, joy bubbled up unexpectedly and she didn’t want Freeda to recognize it and take it away from her. She could not look Freeda in the eye with the telltale smirk tickling at her lips. She knew better than to ask questions. Her thoughts swung back and forth like a pendulum. On the one hand, she kept thinking that she had saved Freeda from something rather awful. This presumed heroicness made her feel good about her deed. On the other hand, she was traumatized by the unknowableness of the whole situation. She couldn’t understand how the dots would ever fit together. Even more bizarre and embarrassingly painful was the scorn from Freeda, who had seemed to not appreciate Chloe rescuing her at all.
“Look, whatever. Just don’t tell my mother you saw Julius over here.”
“You do my hair then?” Chloe asked with big, hopeful eyes. Upon realizing that the little brat had no clue about the orgasm she had intercepted, Freeda was relieved. She agreed to cornrow Chloe’s hair right then. “Get the grease, and come back to my room.”
As Chloe searched for the hair grease, she suddenly started to feel cheated in a way that diminished the satisfaction of finally getting her hair braided. Of course, she dare not say anything because this opportunity at cornrows was, like so many other unfair moments in her life, a now-or-never sort of situation. She sighed as she paused to look at her thick tuffs of hair in the mirror over the sink. The joy that had gurgled mysteriously only a few minutes before seeped out, not like the air from a balloon that’s been poked, but rather from the giving way of a substance that was never quite strong enough. The assurance of impending deflation was oddly soothing. Her childhood pieced itself together around such paradoxes, and she waited patiently for the puzzle to someday bloom into a clear picture.
“I mean, the nerve of him! I mean, Sophie, am I crazy or something? You get me right! I mean...yeah, like he’s so out of line here! How he gonna trip off me calling him out on his shit, and then turn around and judge me!—” Freeda switched the receiver to her left ear, giving her neck a break. She dabbed her fingers into the Pink Oil Moisturizer-Conditioner-In-One and stroked a long passage of Chloe’s scalp. Pulling the phone away from her mouth she hissed at her cousin, “You need to learn how to grease your own head. That’s what’s taking me so long—”
“And you need to stop cussing, I’ma tell your muva—!” Chloe sang, bobbing her head side to side to feel how tight the braids really were.
Freeda pulled Chloe’s head back so that her eyes met the whirling blades of the ceiling fan. She put her own face over Chloe’s and said, this time into the phone: “You better stop gettin’ smart with me or I’m gonna leave your hair lookin’ like this! You want that?” Chloe winced and mumbled an apology so that Freeda would release her hair. The cornrows were already creating little stress bumps on her edges. Now a lonesome tear trickled out of the left eye onto her baby-fat cheek. She pouted and pulled her arms across her chest like the warrior-self she daydreamed about whenever she felt like a punk.
“I just wonder if he really loves me, or just the image of what he wants me to be. That dream of his mama he trying to recreate with me,” Freeda said, fingering through the rows of patterned hair and checking that both sides looked even. “I mean, what’s wrong with wanting to look good and feel good?” Freeda spun Chloe around to look at the top half of her work, but instead caught sight of the traitorous tear.
“I know you not gonna sit up here crying!” she yelled into the phone. “I ain’t even get you that bad,” Freeda sucked her teeth in disgust, “Naw girl, I ain’t talking to you, this lil brat here...”
Freeda ignored Chloe’s explanation that her tears were only because the braids were too tight and not because she had been snapped at. “Hold on,” Freeda told Sophie, pulling the phone down to her chest. “Look, I need a break from your head anyway,” Freeda said, her voice softening. “Go get some juice or something. Every little thing got you crying. You need a nap—!”
“Please,” Chloe whined, “don’t stop. I won’t cry no more, I, I promise Freeda. Pleeeeeeeeeease finish.” Her tears now paraded southward to her spaghetti-stained, yellow I Love Miami t-shirt. Big drops of salt water meshing with the waves of a painted ocean. Chloe had never been to Miami either; this was another guilt-gift from her mother’s travels. Chloe, of course, wore it with pride even though the sleeves squeezed her arms and it was too short to properly cover her protruding belly.
“Stop whining! I said I needed a break.” Freeda had little patience for her cousin. She knew Chloe was just more on edge since her mother was gone longer than planned, again. Somewhere in California, or was it Nevada this time? Freeda knew deep down that Chloe was sad and lonely and scared, but she didn’t want to put up with a crybaby either. She looked down at her jagged nails, entwined with strands of Chloe’s black hair. She didn’t want to meet the waterfall on Chloe’s face; she’d only feel worse for having yelled at her.
“I’ll finish your hair after dinner. We can watch a movie in the living room,” Freeda sighed. “Happy?”
“You promise?” Chloe sniffed, wiping snot and tears with her headscarf. Freeda nodded, rubbing the excess oil in her own hair and shooing Chloe out of her room. “Yeah, girl, what was I saying,” as she went back to Sophie.
Chloe closed the door and tiptoed in front of the voices coming out from under Aunt Mae’s door. It was her uncle speaking. She knew they were talking about her again; it seemed everyone spoke about her, around her, under her with whispers and behind closed doors, but in fact, said little to her. This baffled her, and yet still she became a wonderful detective putting the pieces of her mother’s whereabouts together after chronic eavesdropping. And the knowing didn’t bring her anymore peace because she had to pretend she didn’t know anything anyway.
“I don’t know, Mae. I mean, did she even tell you when she’d get the test results back?” Uncle Rafe’s tone sounded sarcastic and strained at the same time. Chloe imagined his eyes opening wide like when he made silly faces behind the newspaper. Uncle Rafe was funny, especially when he pulled her barrettes and pretended like he didn’t do it. Sometimes he took her with him on his business runs and let her be his assistant. She liked that he took so much interest in her ability to be useful for a change. Chloe wished she could always feel needed, but then again, what did she really have to give?
“I don’t know Rafe! You act like I know any more than you do,” Aunt Mae sucked her teeth. She was probably standing with her hands on her hips, holding on to the brim of her slip as she unhooked the girdle or rolling up the control-top stockings she’d just removed. Chloe didn’t know they had come home yet. She was happy, imagining how much a fuss they’d make over her new hairdo.
“I mean, Mae, really. What kind of sensible woman leaves her child and then don’t even call on a regular basis?”
“Can you please lower your voice, damn!” Aunt Mae was probably now sitting on her big queen-sized bed that Chloe imagined was what your bed grew into when you got married. She figured that since you had to share your room with a man you should at least get to have a bigger bed. Chloe laughed, thinking one day her bed might grow too, but what would a husband do with her? Surely, he’d find something disgraceful about her boring life.
“Whatever, I’m going to the store. What you tell me to get, babe?” Uncle Rafe moved toward the door and jingled his keys. Chloe expertly ducked into the bathroom, closing the door so that she could reappear as if she’d not been listening. She fixed her face to look innocent and pleasant, a stark contrast to the anxiety she felt from the avalanche of questions she had about her mother. Every thought collided with the next and she fought back fear like the crazy woman on that movie who beat the man who was trying to help her.
When she opened the door, Uncle Rafe was going down the steps. She ran out behind him, “Where you going Uncle Rafe?” Chloe asked, pretending to not already know the answer.
“To the store my dear. You wanna come?” Rafe did love his niece and she was much more enjoyable than his moody, overly-dramatic, newborn-adult daughter who seemed offended if you asked her anything about her day. He sighed, thinking that if Mae’s sister was gonna be so flaky, it was best Chloe have some sort of stability in their house.
“I can’t go, Uncle Rafe. Freeda still doing my hair. See,” she spun around so he could see the cornrows. It framed her face like something preserved for royalty.
“Wow! Look at you! How’d you get the Diva to do your hair?” He laughed, turning to walk down the stairs.
“Can you bring back some chicken nuggets with barbeque and honey mustard sauce. And fries too please?”
“Sure, baby. Anything for the Queen!”
“Me? A Queen?” Chloe blushed. The hair was working! She was becoming something worthy of indulgence and pampering, something beautiful.
“Yeah Chloe, you look real fancy and important with your new head. Like you oughta be in charge of something.” His voice trailed as he walked down the stairs and out the front door. Chloe was so excited to have been recognized that she wanted some more accolades. She ran into Aunt Mae’s room and found her lying on the bed with her eyes closed.
“Aunt Mae,” Chloe crept up to the edge of bed and folded her body into the gap of space so that she could lie down too.
“Chloe!” Aunt Mae was startled by the strong fragrance of the hair oil and the new design on her niece’s head. “Well look at you! Freeda finally did your hair. Well it’s about time. Turn around, lemme see.”
“It’s not finished yet, we gonna watch a movie and she gonna do it later for me and then it’ll look just like the Amber.”
“The who?” Aunt Mae asked, scooting over so Chloe could have more room.
“The Amber girl. You know, you remember, right, from the magazine.”
“Bring it here and let me see it, girl.”
Chloe ran to Freeda’s door and remembered to knock this time. When she retrieved the magazine she looked for the article, but couldn’t remember what page it was on. She and Aunt Mae flipped through the images of tall blondes with skinny jeans and brunette dudes with jackets slung over their backs, as if life really was so fulfilling.
“You sure this the right one Chlo-boo? It wouldn’t be no little black girls in here.”
“Yeah, un-huh, Aunt Mae it is. I remember the cover—”
“Oh my!” Aunt Mae gasped, finding the article about female genital mutilation. The opening page was a spread of five girls from the SOSA foundation.
“There it is Aunt Mae! This article. See, that there is Amber!” Chloe smiled broadly at her hero who’s hair had made her into a Queen. Chloe searched Aunt Mae’s face for a sign that she remembered the pretty girl’s picture, but all she saw was a fright that seemed to come from no where.
“Chloe, did you read this?” Aunt Mae closed the magazine, looked into the child’s eyes, and tried to determine if she knew anything about private parts.
“No,” Chloe was disappointed. Aunt Mae hadn’t reveled in Amber’s beauty the way she had expected her to do. “Why, what’s wrong with Amber? Don’t you like it?”
Mae realized she had overreacted and if she wanted to salvage Chloe’s naïveté, she’d have to act like there was nothing wrong with her niece referencing articles about clitorises and blades for a hair style. When she assured Chloe that Amber was indeed very gorgeous, Chloe’s joy recovered and she skipped off to watch TV in the living room. Mae reclined on her back, skimming the article, while unconsciously pulling her thighs tightly together and tensing her vaginal muscles for protection against the harrowing descriptions. She wondered if Freeda had read the article, but didn’t want to ask, for fear of having to learn what her own daughter knew about becoming a woman.
As they sat in front of the television later on that night, Chloe and Freeda didn’t speak to each other. If she needed Chloe to adjust her head, she just tapped it down until Chloe’s neck gave way to the direction. The movie was something Freeda had seen bootleg at Julius’ brother’s house a few weeks ago, but Chloe hadn’t seen it. Some silly Martin Lawrence movie that was funny enough for a Saturday that no longer carried any potential for something more exciting like a party or sex.
Chloe’s thoughts migrated through the images on the screen. Not because she was trying to follow along with the movie, but because she randomly inserted herself into the lives of the characters, reimagining how an alternate existence could benefit her. What if she were light-skinned like the lead actress? Or what if she were old like the grandma woman? Then she would have already figured out how all the dots fit together. By then, the puzzle would have become recognizable and she could finally relax into the knowing.
Every time she tried to touch the ripples on her scalp, Freeda smacked her hand away. Freeda seemed to be nearing the bottom of her head, and Chloe wished she would slow down. Even though it still hurt a lot, Chloe didn’t complain because the gentle caress of Freeda’s fingers against her ears and neck felt so good. She wanted this moment of beautiful touch to last forever, and yet she knew it would have to end at some point.
“This the last one. You want a barrette or bead or something?” Freeda smoothed her palms over her woven masterpiece.
“Yeah, some beads please.” Chloe kept her eyes on the screen, so as not to show any sign of sadness that this ritual was coming to a close. When it was all done and the movie ended, Aunt Mae tied a scarf around her head and tucked her in the bed. Chloe had spent an extra five minutes in the bathroom after her bath looking at her lovely head in the mirror. Now as she lay her head on the pillow, she couldn’t get comfortable. Every way she positioned herself put too much pressure on her sore scalp. Finally, she rolled over on her stomach and propped her chin on the backs of her hands. This was an awkward position, but she persevered through her insomnia on her quest to beauty. When she did approach sleep, it was through a maze of jumbled visions. Her mother returning to a beautiful child. Platters of fries and nuggets on golden trays at her request. Her own face a lighter shade of brown, and then wrinkled and dark like a dried prune. The radiant, smiling Amber, who laughed heartily everyday because she was too pretty to ever lose her happiness.
Cornrows is published in the anthology of short stories Woman’s Work, edited by Michelle Sewell. Cornrows also received a Larry Neal Writers Award from the DC Commission on the Arts & Humanities.
