Chapter 33
THIRTY-THREE
“Girl, you know you crazy,” CeCe exclaimed, putting one hand on her hip and looking around the hair salon as if she couldn’t believe this was happening.
“I’m not crazy, Ce. I’m a woman on a mission!”
“A mission to do what? Give me a heart attack?” Whenever a Black woman cuts off her hair, it’s a major event and CeCe was swiveling her head from left to right as if she were searching for the camera that must be documenting this insanity.
“I thought you’d be excited to do something different.” I suppressed a nervous laugh. “You’re the one always telling me to switch it up.”
CeCe gave me an incredulous look, then pointed a long purple fingernail in my direction. “I meant get some layers or highlights, not chop it all off. Most of these heffas in here would give a limb or at least a digit for all this hair.”
I’d walked into her salon that day with a stack of pictures of Halle Berry and Toni Braxton that CeCe barely glanced at before walking away while emphatically shaking her head no.
But when she realized that my mind was made up, she’d gotten an excited look on her face.
I figured she was telling me I was crazy just to cover her ass—like a doctor qualifying a risky surgery to avoid a malpractice suit.
“They can have it, Ce,” I said, shrugging as if I didn’t care that she was about to cut off thirty years of hot oil treatments, careful trims, leave-in conditioners, and silk pillowcases.
CeCe gathered my hair into a low ponytail. “This is it,” she exclaimed. “No going back.” When I nodded, she said, “Okay, here we go!” and cut it off right at the rubber band.
I was grateful that CeCe’s first cut had been so decisive because, truth be told, I was freaking out.
I thought about the entire month my mother had grounded me during my freshman year of high school, after I’d cut ragged bangs with kitchen shears in an act of teen defiance.
“You’re going to be happy for this hair one day,” Mom would say as she braided my hair at night, silencing any protests I made at her rough treatment of my tangles.
“Appreciate what you have and don’t go chopping it off on a whim. ”
But this wasn’t a whim. It was a mission—to have my exterior match what I now felt like on the inside.
I was no longer interested in scraping back my curls to be invisible or getting a blowout to be catcalled by random men.
I’d stopped wearing my hair down anyway; the weight had been bothering me for months.
My first day back at NuVoices was that Monday, and I didn’t want my fresh start to feel weighed down.
After CeCe finished cutting and shaping and gelling and spraying, she spun me around to look in her mirror.
I caught my breath. My eyes looked huge, my mouth full, my neck long.
I reached up to feel the soft wisps of hair in the back, then I touched the bangs that swept over one eye, the delicate layers around my ears.
I felt as if I were looking at my true self for the first time.
A stylish woman as opposed to a pretty girl.
I eyed my outfit—white turtleneck, jeans, tan boots—and thought about how a plunging neckline would look with my hair, how I could now carry off heavy chandelier earrings and wrap cool scarves around my neck.
Everyone was staring at me. All motion had ceased as the women who’d seen CeCe do my hair the same way for years waited for my reaction.
“It’s fabulous, Ce. I can’t believe how different I look.
I love it, I really love it,” I said, turning my head to examine my new pixie cut from every angle.
As I jumped up and hugged her, an upbeat single from Betty Brown’s album suddenly blared from the radio.
The ladies in the salon perked up when it came on, singing along, seat dancing, and head bobbing.
Ce had copies of Sugar all over the salon, and when one of her clients spied the August issue with Betty on the cover, she squealed, “Oh shit, this is the girl singing right now! Don’t think I saw this before. ”
“This cover is fire!” The woman’s friend lifted the hood dryer to get a closer look. She held out her hand to get the magazine, but her girl wasn’t giving it up.
CeCe noticed and passed her a second copy of the August issue from a low coffee table near her station. “You know that’s the editor in chief right here,” she told her, tilting her head in my direction.
I was about to say former editor in chief when the sensation of being Sugar’s EIC again overwhelmed me, both electrifying and familiar. I just smiled and introduced myself to the woman under the dryer. Monday couldn’t come fast enough.
That evening, Derek came by to review my latest blog post. I had written a piece on a series of troubling sexual harassment claims at a major music label, and I needed to be sure I wasn’t publishing anything inadvertently defamatory.
Over the past six months, Derek had been my partner in crime on Nikki’s Notes.
He knew I couldn’t afford to take any legal risks, so he had insisted on reading every one of my posts.
Sometimes I’d email him the text, but we met in person more frequently.
In the beginning, we’d go to coffee shops, but after a while, it became easier for him to stop by my apartment after work, since it was so close to the courthouse.
Though Derek never mentioned it, I think he was worried about my money situation without my EIC salary.
He’d always show up with dinner from a local restaurant.
We had a ritual where I’d open my front door with a cocktail for him, while he passed me the bag with our food.
I hadn’t yet told Derek that I was going back to Sugar, so that night, I made a festive mix of prosecco and St-Germain.
After a moment of hesitation, I put on the H?tel Costes CD he’d sent me, feeling a bit self-conscious as the sensual music filled my apartment.
When I opened the door, flute in hand, Derek didn’t move to take it; he was riveted to the spot, staring at me, open-mouthed.
“Ya like?” I asked timidly. I wouldn’t see my girls and my parents until that Sunday, when we’d made plans to meet for brunch and celebrate my return to NuVoices.
So Derek was the first to see my makeover.
Although I’d already gotten plenty of reactions from the streets.
Like some Samson story remix, I’d felt more powerful walking home from the salon with my pixie cut than with long hair.
Given how much unwanted attention I used to get whenever I got a silk press, I’d half expected to be totally ignored.
But my confidence had been like catnip to passersby.
I’d gotten more looks than ever, but a different kind.
The catcalls were less “Give me a smile, baby” and more “You go, girl!” It seemed as if the people nodding appreciatively in my direction were seeing me and not only my hair—maybe because I felt more like myself than ever.
“I … It’s … It’s just … I mean, you look amazing,” Derek stuttered, and I felt my face flush. I’d never seen him lose his cool.
“Phew! Now that I have your stamp of approval, I can rest easy,” I joked, hoping he hadn’t noticed my bright red cheeks.
“Well, then you can rest easy because this look suits you beautifully.” Derek found his composure and handed me the pizza box while he took a sip from the flute I’d given him.
“Oh wow, and this is delicious. If I’d known it was a special night, I would have brought something more interesting than a pepperoni pie. ”
“No, that’s perfect, and I’m starving,” I told him as we walked toward the kitchen. “Come on, let’s eat first. I have news.”
“There’s more happening than your fire-ass haircut?”
“Just a little bit.” I perched on a kitchen counter stool, grabbed a slice, and told him about my conversation with Marie, and that Ricky had agreed to my terms to return to NuVoices.
“Are you sure you’re not a lawyer?” Derek asked, grinning, after I finished. “You’ve somehow managed to negotiate the literal best of all worlds.”
“To be honest, I was hesitant at first. The blog is doing so well.”
“Uh, yeah—and now it’s about to blow up with all the extra resources. You’re on your way to full-on media moguldom.”
It was the second time Derek had pointed out a possibility I hadn’t fully grasped myself.
Turning away to hide the warmth rising in my cheeks, I busied myself pouring us more prosecco and St-Germain.
“I’ll admit, I was starting to feel burnt out trying to scale the blog on my own,” I said.
“But what if people think it’s weak to go back to NuVoices? ”
“First of all, fuck anyone who isn’t supportive,” Derek replied, his voice sharp.
“Second, how is this not a power move? You’re returning to Sugar after building a fast-growing blog and, oh yeah, as part owner.
Shit, Nikki, give yourself some credit.” He chuckled, but the serious look in his eyes didn’t waver.
Rising from the stool where he’d been sitting, Derek placed a hand on my shoulder.
“Plus, your Sugar girls need you,” he added, his tone now quiet and sincere.
“You think so?” I whispered, enjoying the warm pressure of his hand.
“Yes, they need you.” Derek replied softly, then put his other hand on my right shoulder. Like tendrils of light in a plasma globe, the energy between us danced from his fingertips through my body. “Nikki, I can’t take it anymore. I need you too.” He leaned in to place his mouth on mine.