Writivism Fiction Series

Urembo Parlour. The salon in Judy’s bedroom. Two floors below Brenda at the C3 block in Highrise.

Brenda passed it every day, slowing down to mouth along to the songs floating out of the salon. TLC, Aaliyah, Tamia - Brenda hummed along, like a secret. Sometimes she paused to stare at the poster on the front door. Absorbed by the picture of the girl with silky hair, stylishly cut with a fringe swooping over her eye, imprinting every detail onto herself while tracing over the pink floral lettering. Beautiful Beginnings.

The door opened with a sudden sweep. Judy found Brenda humming along to Monica while clutching a lock of hair.

‘Aah, I see you’re enjoying the music!’ she cooed.

Brenda smiled nervously. Judy followed Brenda’s gaze to the poster.

‘Think you’d like to have that done?’ Judy asked.

She nodded, containing herself. Of course I’d love to do it!

Brenda stood awkwardly while Judy peered at the bird’s nest atop her head and gave it a poke. ‘Your hair is so nice and thick,’ she said, ‘the chemical will hold well!’

Brenda spent the days that followed dreaming herself into the poster and mulling over Judy’s words. She tugged obsessively at her hair. How would she ask Ambetsa? Her mother could be so unyielding at times. When Brenda had asked for a mobile phone, she had muttered grouchily about ‘Young people these days!’

Ama,’ Brenda begun cautiously. ‘What if I relax my hair?’

Her mother, who had been plaiting the hair in question, stopped midway. Brenda anticipated her anger, or the tired lecture about how she was just a child and did not know what was good for her.

‘Why?’ Ambetsa asked ‘What is wrong with this hair?’

What is wrong? Brenda wanted to shout. It’s an impossible clump!

‘It will still be mine, Ama,’ she said instead.

‘When I was in school, we had to keep our hair short and natural.’ Her mother resumed plaiting and Brenda held her breath.

Ambetsa sighed, ‘Fine,’ she patted her handiwork, ‘but you will have to find your own means -’

‘Yes, yes, Ama,’ Brenda shrieked excitedly. ‘I will!’

Brenda had put aside three weeks

softly. of lunch-money, but now, as she sat in the worn green seat in the bedroom of Flat 4, she began to wonder if it was worth it.

She wanted to claw into her scalp with a nail. Anything that would relieve the flaming fire-ant itch that coursed through it. She tried to distract herself with the music. Boyz II Men crooned about reaching The End of the Road, not particularly a favourite.

Judy continued to apply the relaxer, oblivious to Brenda’s torment, moving methodically from root to tip, clogging the air with its dense ammonic smell. Brenda sighed and rolled her eyes. She wished she were at the end of the road! At her beautiful beginning.

‘Is this supposed to happen?’ Brenda asked impatiently.

Judy paused. ‘Imagine

it’s just