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

kitchen, the sound of her breath in her lungs. There was no smell of burnt hair and oil yet, no infinity of sitting still. Just a quiet hymn and her mother’s hands moving on her, getting her ready. It was odd to find herself in the opposite position with Sheila, her hands moving through her friend’s hair. “OK, I think I’m about done now. You can sit up.”
    Sheila sat up, her eyes slightly glazed, and wrapped a towel around her head. “Your turn,” she said. When Angela was done, they regarded each other, towel-headed. “You really want to go to the barbershop looking like this?” said Sheila. “You know how those guys in there are gonna be, all checking us out and talking about us. And we’ll have to wait with our hair looking all crazy.”
    â€œWell, what do you want to do?”
    â€œI used to cut my brother’s hair all the time and I still have my old clippers. I wasn’t thinking at first. I can do yours and then if we prop up the mirror I can tell you how to cut mine.”
    â€œI don’t know, Sheil.”
    â€œOh, you’ll be fine. Here. Off with your towel.” Sheila snatched the towel off Angela’s head. Her hair stood up all over, frizzy and wild. “Come on, Sheena, Queen of the Jungle, let’s get to work.” They both laughed and Sheila went to find her clippers. Angela watched her friend’s retreating back and rubbed her fingers together, remembering the spirals of hair under her hands.
    Sheila emerged from the bedroom, holding clippers and a pair of barber scissors. “I can’t believe I forgot all this stuff. Come on, Sheena, sit down.”
    Angela sat obediently. “We need a little music for this operation,” Sheila said. She put the Supremes on the stereo, loud, and started combing out Angela’s hair and dancing around. Then she got out the clippers, plugged them in and started cutting. Angela jumped as the first large clump of hair fell into her lap. “Don’t worry, Angie. I know what I’m doing. And don’t jump—that’ll get you messed up for sure.” From then on, Angela sat like a child chastised by her mother. Her hair fell around her. Finally she had to close her eyes. She remembered her mother’s screams on the phone when they talked after she moved out here. What would she say now? After about half an hour, working first with the clippers and then, quick and sure, with small barber shears, Sheila said, “There. I do believe you’re an African queen.” She held up a mirror. Angela’s eyes widened. She barely recognized herself. She had never looked more . . . well, OK . . . she had never looked more astonishing. Her eyes were large and luminous, the midlength hair soft and inviting. It made her neck look longer still. She did indeed look regal. “We gotta go over to Melrose and get your ears pierced and get you some earrings, girl. You gonna be knockin’ ’em dead in no time.”
    â€œOh, Sheil, I can’t believe it.”
    â€œBelieve it. Diahann Carroll is dead.”
    Angela was very nervous cutting her friend’s hair, but Sheila was a patient instructor. She too looked gorgeous when they were done, her darker skin a contrast to Angela’s honey coloring. “We have
got
to go to the store,” they shrieked, almost in unison as they looked at themselves in the mirror. They did a fast, sloppy job of sweeping up their old hair, tossed it in the trash and headed over to Melrose. Two African queens out for an afternoon’s shopping. Who would stand in their way?
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    They came back just moments before dark, exhausted and laden with bags of new clothing they could not possibly afford. “So much for next month’s rent.” Angela laughed, shoving her hip into the door. Her earlobes ached a little from her new gold posts. Sheila was wearing new black-and-white-striped hoop earrings. They