I have been going to Jamaica now for over 16yrs...it always inspires me to write a diary... here's a lil chapter from this past Saturday...
Strolling down Main street, shiny, shirtless ebony men hold out a clenched fist to me and knock against my knuckles "reeespekt why-t lay-dee...mee lie-k ya shay-p..'nuff reepekt"
I bow my head in acknowledgement as I walk on by.
Reaching across the street passed a group of uniformed school children, skirting away from the stray goats all the while feelin the boom boom of the ragga dancehall beat in my belly as it blares from every corner. "pppppssst! Psssst!" i hear from the men at the gas station "pssst! Big strong gal! Wanna ride wid me!?"
Across the old stone bridge an older dread is barefoot standing by a cooking pot at am impromptu fire stirring his food he blissfully watches the world go by, vendors selling wire wool balanced in mounds on flat trays a-top their heads walk brisk through careering honking traffic. I stop by a small beauty shop, down a dirt track road and ask the lady if she can wash and blow out my hair "Yesss Miss yer wanna settin' noooo prob-lem, 500J" (roughly the equivalent of $5 US). The place is like a busy family home, a baby lies in a crib to my side, two other women sit on small metal stools in the middle of the room as teenage girls braid their hair, clippers buzz like bees as the barber services a steady stream of men and boys.
A suprise to most of the waiting customers the stocky treacle colored barber offerd to wash my hair and leads me past a torn pink curtain to the dimly lit back room. A lone reclining chair cascades into an old tarnish basin. He swaddles towels around my shoulders like i am a fragile china doll and leans me back onto the sink, "I tink you arrrr a very pretty lay-dee", he whispers in my ear. "Oh thanks!" i say quite nochalant used to my new found 'fame'. Thought of the tacky 70's movie Shampoo crossed my mind as he peruse the dated decor as he washed and caressed my hair again and again. By the THIRD wash i was beggining to wonder if I had THE dirtiest hair in the world. At round four of the conditioning scalp massage he was startled as we were joined in the cramped back room by a tall well defined man with cornrowed hair. "Cordell,Yer wand some 'elp?"By this time I told them both that I thought I had THE cleanest hair in the whole of Chrisondom and shuffled dripping into the main room, almost embarrsed by my lengthy absence! A chubby dark skinned woman in a stained pink robe carefully glues rows of long silky hair onto the scalp of a younger gal as she asks me to choose the products I could use on my hair. Swiftly avoiding the 'placenta' cream (urg!) I pick up some hair mouse an step into the wobbly stylist seat all the time being watched by the stocky barber and his grinning skinny friend. After a scalp byrning blow dry I suggest adventourously that I could go for something "creative" (ha!) and so she headed to the table in front which looked like an alchemists desk at an Ironmongers school. After careful selection she chose some contraption that looked more like a pair of metal pliers and sat it in a rough hot metal sleeve. It was this point that I wondered if a horse might arrive for new shoes ... but no this was beauty Jamaican-style. I was excited, my over washed scorch-blown hair was about to be seared into shape with iron-monger gusto. Working her magic-1920 finger waves appeared with the combo of Destiny's Child flicks - it was hideous on my chubby red face - but I loved it!
The walk back 'home' created the same usual attention I had now gotten used to...but at least this time I was ....a Yardie hair hopper!
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