Wambui’s hair was now in short locs, which Ifemelu did not like; she thought them sparse and dull, unflattering to Wambui’s pretty face.
“I don’t want dreads,” she said.
“It doesn’t have to be dreads. You can wear an Afro, or braids like you used to. There’s a lot you can do with natural hair.”
“I can’t just cut my hair,” she said.
“Relaxing your hair is like being in prison. You’re caged in. Your hair rules you. You didn’t go running with Curt today because you don’t want to sweat out this straightness. That picture you sent me, you had your hair covered on the boat. You’re always battling to make your hair do what it wasn’t meant to do. If you go natural and take good care of your hair, it won’t fall off like it’s doing now. I can help you cut it right now. No need to think about it too much.”
Wambui was so sure, so convincing. Ifemelu found a pair of scissors. Wambui cut her hair, leaving only two inches, the ne
w growth since her last relaxer. Ifemelu looked in the mirror. She was all big eyes and big head. At best, she looked like a boy; at worst, like an insect.
“I look so ugly I’m scared of myself.”
“You look beautiful. Your bone structure shows so well now. You’re just not used to seeing yourself like this. You’ll get used to it,” Wambui said.
Ifemelu was still staring at her hair. What had she done? She looked unfinished, as though the hair itself, short and stubby, was asking for attention, for something to be done to it, for more. After Wambui left, she went to the drugstore, Curt’s baseball hat pulled over her head. She bought oils and pomades, applying one and then the other, on wet hair and then on dry hair, willing an unknown miracle to happen. Something, anything, that would make her like her hair. She thought of buying a wig, but wigs brought anxiety, the always-present possibility of flying off your head. She thought of a texturizer to loosen her hair’s springy coils, stretch out the kinkiness a little, but a texturizer was really a relaxer, only milder, and she would still have to avoid the rain.
Curt told her, “Stop stressing, babe. It’s a really cool and brave look.”
“I don’t want my hair to be brave.”
“I mean like stylish, chic.” He paused. “You look beautiful.”
“I look like a boy.”
Curt said nothing. There was, in his expression, a veiled amusement, as though he did not see why she should be so upset but was better off not saying so.
The next day, she called in sick, and climbed back into bed.
“You didn’t call in sick so we could stay a day longer in Bermuda but you call in sick because of your hair?” Curt asked, propped up by pillows, stifling laughter.
“I can’t go out like this.” She was burrowing under the covers as though to hide.
“It’s not as bad as you think,” he said.
“At least you finally accept that it’s bad.”
Curt laughed. “You know what I mean. Come here.”
He hugged her, kissed her, and then slid down and began to massage her feet; she liked the warm pressure, the feel of his fingers. Yet she could not relax. In the bathroom mirror, her hair had startled her, dull and shrunken from sleep, like a mop of wool sitting on her head. She reached for her phone and sent Wambui a text: I hate my hair. I couldn’t go to work today.
Wambui’s reply came minutes later: Go online. HappilyKinkyNappy.com. It’s this natural hair community. You’ll find inspiration.
She showed the text to Curt. “What a silly name for the website.”
“I know, but it sounds like a good idea. You should check it out sometime.”
“Like now,” Ifemelu said, getting up. Curt’s laptop was open on the desk. As she went to it, she noticed a change in Curt. A sudden tense quickness. His ashen, panicked move towards the laptop.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“They mean nothing. The e-mails mean nothing.”
She stared at him, forcing her mind to work. He had not expected her to use his computer, because she hardly ever did. He was cheating on her. How odd, that she had never considered that. She picked up the laptop, held it tightly, but he didn’t try to reach for it. He just stood and watched. The Yahoo mail page was minimized, next to a page about college basketball. She read some of the e-mails. She looked at attached photographs. The woman’s e-mails—her address was SparklingPaola123—were strongly suggestive, while Curt’s were just suggestive enough to make sure she continued. I’m going to cook you dinner in a tight red dress and sky-high heels, she wrote, and you just bring yourself and a bottle of wine. Curt replied: Red would look great on you. The woman was about his age, but there was, in the photos she sent, an air of hard desperation, hair dyed a brassy blond, eyes burdened by too much blue makeup, top too low-cut. It surprised Ifemelu, that Curt found her attractive. His white ex-girlfriend had been fresh-faced and preppy.
“I met her in Delaware,” Curt said. “Remember the conference thing I wanted you to come to? She started hitting on me right away. She’s been after me since. She won’t leave me alone. She knows I have a girlfriend.”