Third Girl from the Left by Martha Southgate Read Free Book Online Page A

way. She went back to her moldy, damp bedroom and cried until she fell asleep.
    Once Sheila took her in and she went to work at the club, it was immeasurably better. She was able to send money and little presents home sometimes. Her parents thought this was all being funded by her work in a dentist’s office as she tried to make it as an actress. But even though things were better, even though she liked the Playboy Club, it wasn’t getting her into any movies. Sheila had the same problem. They both auditioned some—not enough—and were passed over plenty. There just weren’t that many parts for girls like them yet. And they didn’t know how to get the ones that were there. They could smell the change all around them, but they didn’t know how to touch it. They lamented their situation often, but nothing happened until late one hot morning when they were watching TV together, not talking. Sheila was rubbing Angela’s feet, which felt so good she was almost asleep. Suddenly Sheila’s voice cut through her stupor. “I can’t believe we didn’t think of this before!”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThis!” She picked up a copy of
Ebony
lying on the floor next to the sofa on top of a pile of dirty clothes. On it was a picture of Cicely Tyson, her hair in a neat Afro. “We need to change our hair.”
    â€œChange it into what?” said Angela, genuinely puzzled.
    Sheila shook the magazine. “This. We need to look today. Hot. Happening. We need naturals!”
    Angela’s hands flew to her head. “You mean let our hair go back?”
    Sheila rolled her eyes. “Yeeees. It is almost 1972, after all. And we look just like every other girl who goes on an audition in this godforsaken town. We all look like Diahann Carroll in
Julia
. Nice. Sweet. Enough of that. It’s time for power to the people. Let’s do it. OK?”
    Angela fingered the hair at the back of her neck. It was starting to go back already. What would it feel like to have that softness all over her head? “Well. OK. If you don’t think they’ll give us a hard time at work.”
    â€œNo. We can just tell them it’s the next big thing. You know they’ll listen to us ’cause we’re black chicks. We’re always ahead of everybody else. It’ll look good. Look at her, Angela. She’s beautiful.”
    Angela looked. Cicely was smiling, confident. Beautiful. She was beautiful. Angela’s hair had not been left to its natural texture since she was five years old. Her mother was not raising any nappy-headed little ragamuffins. In Tulsa, a girl would no sooner have run around with unstraightened hair than she would have run around naked. It would have been worse than running around naked, letting everyone see your naps. Angela touched the photo, a little self-conscious. OK. She came here to become someone new. It was time to look different too.
    They both had the night off so they started right away. Despite Sheila’s bold proclamation, it had been so long since either of them had had more than the slightest contact with their God-given tresses that they weren’t sure how to proceed. Finally, Angela proposed that they wash their hair so it would go back and then go to a barbershop to get it cut. “Just to start with,” she said. They washed each other’s hair in the sink. The oil used to press it slid down the drain in thickened swirls. Angela felt Sheila’s hair rise up beneath her fingers like bread dough, thick and pliable. She rubbed Sheila’s scalp, finding it curiously comforting. She remembered when her mother used to wash her hair over the sink. Every Saturday, the hot comb sizzling in wait on the stovetop, her mother humming to herself, usually an old hymn. Angela dreaded the comb—her mother liked a hard press and usually burned her at least twice—but she enjoyed those soft moments before, the quiet of the