Having nurtured a hidden desire to have African braids, I finally decided to take the plunge. I was long deterred from doing so a) because no one would do it in India and b) I wasn't sure if I would look like a modern day Medusa or Winnie Mandela. Anyways, while sauntering in Newtown (Sydney's alternative inner city suburb), I espied Afrique Ali, providers of all things to do with African hair and decided to offer them my locks. I was under the mistaken impression that the only participant in the exercise would be my locks - my appointment day would swiftly disabuse me of this notion. For I arrived to find bags of synthetic black hair billowing around the place. As it turned out the procedure of braiding is simple but tedious. Sections of your hair are taken and braided along with the synthetic hair to form a plait. This way the style lasts a few months and you feel that your dollars were well worth the parting (no pun intended). Also the hair looks even and glossy and all things that shampoo commercials promise. But you are also carrying double your weight on your head for the next few months.
Afrique Ali is run by Alice, a woman from Ghana who has been here 13 years. Ghana I understand is 80% Christian and Alice is devout in her faith. She has a brood of three, two daughters in their 20s and a small boy who runs around the salon providing much entertainment. This is one of two outlets and very busy this Saturday. Around 5 African girls run the show alongside the ubiquitous Chinese hairdresser. I am to spend the whole day getting my hair done, thus making up for a lifetime of non-appearances in a salon. Happily this means that I was privy to every kind of hair deal made with Alice. Thus, I soon learn how corn rows are done, beads added, braids repaired, dreadlocks fashioned, hair blow dried and how men with a few wisps of hair can offer about half an hour of instructions on what should be done to the wisps. At times, I must admit the salon resembles the chimps in Taronga zoo, what with all the grooming, plucking and teasing. Coffee and food often arrives. It all adds up to a most convivial experience.
The two girls who first set to work on me are from Sudan and have been here three years. The girls in Afrique Ali are all small and shapely and ironically have had their curly locks straightened by irons. The Sudanese girls speak a functional English and are sisters. They have much catching up to do and pretty soon the Sudanese dialect is hanging like a cloud over my head. Alice admonishes them once in a while but the girls are irrepressible and have no time for a professionalism which asks them to be silent and respectful of their customers. No doubt they are further encouraged by my go-ahead. They ask me if I miss home and in the same breath say which of us doesn't? There are not many Africans in Sydney but they tell me the number has been increasing of late. Though it is probably wrong to club them all together. Alice and the Sudanese girls - apart from the hair braiding - seem cultures apart.
Alice is the boss and in control. Through the day she does the bills, instructs the renovators, chats up regular locals, and does hair. Only with the Chinese hairdresser, the hardest working of the lot, does she unbend a little and allows some of her grave demeanour to relax. She is clearly the stern matriarch of the premises. Newtown's rough trade drifts in once in a while, men who want to proposition the pretty girls and sundry trouble makers. Alice is equal to it all. On one occasion a bunch of tough queers stand outside yelling and demanding that their hair be done. Alice imperiously tells them to grow some hair and then try their luck. They hang around disconsolately for awhile after that and then disappear.
Part 2 of my hair dressing is done by Alice's elder daughter Linda who comes in after teaching dance classes elsewhere. She is 25, petite and lovely and must have her share of admirers. She lives on her own but is a mixture of assurance and obedience. Her mother's and the church's influence is clear, this is an elder daughter who will overstep the line only at the cost of her own guilt and shame. The mixture of a girl who is smart and hopes to make it and is yet innocent and will follow the rules laid out for her is all too familiar (I suspect many Indian mothers would love her!). She has a Fiji Indian friend and thinks highly of Indians in general. At one point she laughs and says you Indians seem to travel everywhere! I ask her about racism in Africa, whether Indians indeed are the worst offenders. But she dismisses it. She says Africans are far too casual in all matters, they are not "strict" and "disciplined" and cannot abide people who are so. When she finishes, she stands back and admires her handiwork and says with quiet pride, "It is very neat".
At 7 in the night when I leave, every one is still hard at work. It will be awhile before Alice, Linda and the Sudanese girls go home. The best hairdressing of the day has been on a young Vietnamese boy who has corn rows done and looks rather spectacular. He looks at the mirror and smiles at his reflection. I can only speculate on his night on the town....
Post Script: I didn't look like Medusa or Winnie, as always I looked "the little Tamil girl experimenting with her looks" (ah genes). But it was fun while it lasted.
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