Black Friday

Black Friday By NCWriter1 Copyright 1998 (comments to ncvirgo@aol.com)

When I cut hair at Frederick’s, it was generally understood, though not written, that we did only “white” hair. Blacks, Orientals, Indians, Mexicans and the like could all go to Sally’s in East Town and get their locks lopped, twisted, dyed, beaded, whatever. Management, of course, would never display such a policy, but until that Friday last September none was needed. Those not among the upper crust of the Angelo-Saxon breed had little business on Parker Street, anyway, and certainly none would ever dare think to darken the door of Frederick’s fine family salon. Not, like I said, until that Friday.

I was right in the middle of cropping back Suzanne Yont’s matt, dark curls when the whole thing started.

Even Suzanne’s nine-year-old daughter, Jessica, knew something dreadful was afoot, and stood from where she had been crouched on her knees and playing jacks on the magazine table. It was Jasper who escalated the situation, turning it in to so much more than it needed to have been, but, then, I suppose it is Jasper that I owe for my new happiness.

“Oh, my God!” he said as if he had just witnessed some carnal act of beastly proportions, one hand paused at his thin, tight lips. He raced across the carpeted floor of the lobby, toward the front door with that soft, cushy walk of his.

I couldn’t see Jasper’s hands, but Fatima later told me that he actually reached up to latch the door as she was reaching for the handle. She pushed it open.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” I heard him say, “but we have closed for the evening.”

Up to this point, I had continued working, at her command, to reduce Suzanne’s hair to a pixie style that I felt was all wrong for her, the mess of curls I had so exquisitely nurtured for a full year laying on the floor by my feet. Suzanne is as striking at forty as she probably was at twenty, but I’ve always believed that a face that never smiles is a face that needs some landscaping along the sides and top to increase the curb appeal.

From the foyer stepped a teenage girl – a black teenage girl. I stopped clipping.

I was raised a good Catholic, bred of good, alabaster stock. My schooling was at Farmingdale. I had grown up in the part of town where even the garbage collectors were white. If colored girls were ever attractive, it certainly was never acknowledged in the Foxhunt Hills community in which I was born and bred. What I saw standing in front of Jasper was something new to my eyes in more than one way: a black girl in that part of town, and a black girl in that part of town who looked fine.

“Your sign in the window says you’re open,” she said matter-of-factly. Jasper turned to look at me. I think he was expecting some support; what he got was a good look down my throat because my jaw was stuck open.

“I know what the sign says, ma’am, but I’m telling you, this establishment has closed for the day,” Jasper said. He was smiling that polite, bleached smile of his, but you would have to have been a fool not to have heard the venom in his voice.

I’m sure he mistook the look on my face to mean I was as shocked and repulsed as he was, but he was wrong. My jaw dropped because I could not believe how – God forbid – appealing a black girl could be: white shorts hung tightly on curved hips, brown legs shapely and clean shaven, and hair that actually looked sexy.

She wore a blousey white shirt that was tied in a knot above her belly button. Looking at her bare, dark belly, I suddenly realized I was getting a tight feeling in the front of my slacks, and it sure as hell wasn’t from seeing Jasper with his panties in a wad.

“You are open and you will give me a haircut,” she said. She crossed her arms over her chest in a way that was both defiant and sexy at the same time. I wondered what dark, nipply treasures might lie beneath them.

Thirty-three years of feeling superior were being rapidly stripped down to some latent primal instinct that I didn’t know I had. Despite a lifetime of white culture and duck sauce, this one young black girl was teaching me a surprising lesson: hormones are color-blind.

“Mommie,” poor little indoctrinated Jessica Yonts said, “are they going to cut that black girl’s hair?”

“No, Jessica,” my client said. “Frederick’s doesn’t do black people.” You could have heard a fly fart when she was done.

“Oh, really?” said the girl who I came to know as Fatima. She was smiling and looking to Jasper for a response. To Jasper, I’m sure her smile was like a stake in the heart, a terror to behold. To me, it was like sunshine.

He sighed, the manufactured smile beginning to fade. “Indeed, ma’am,” he said with a sigh, “we just don’t do black hair at this salon.” God help him, he almost sounded apologetic!

It truly was late and Jasper probably should have already locked the door, but Frederick’s has always had a “Walk-Ins Welcome” sign in the window and the open sign was still displayed. My legal experience was limited to some real estate transactions I had gotten involved in at the behest of my daddy, but I knew enough to realize we were skating on thin ice. She had excellent grounds for a successful lawsuit against the establishment, and probably one against Jasper. Owner Frederick Rosington, himself, corporate status aside, would probably also lose a couple of million. My guess was that Mr. Rosington would have done the client to save a few million and begun taking appointments only.

“I do,” I said.

Everyone turned and looked at me, including Suzanne Yonts.

“You do…what?” she asked.

“Black hair,” I replied. “I cut black hair.”

“Pardon?” she said, not trusting her ears. Surely, Richard of Frederick’s would never suggest that he would even consider cutting the hair of a… of someone from East Town. Surely, Richard of Frederick’s, who had been entrusted with the hair of the city’s elite, Richard who was the son of Edward and Jacquelyn Bishop, Richard who had such a heritage and birthright would never do the hair of a Negro.

“I cut black hair, ” I repeated. “Your hair is black, Mrs. Yonts… I’m cutting it… I cut black hair.”

Jasper was looking at me as if I had just blasphemed the Holy Ghost.

“Mommie, is Mister…” Jessica Yonts began, but Suzanne had her tiny hand in hers, leading her toward the door before you could say “backadabus”.

“You’ll be sorry! I’ll have your job for this!” Suzanne shouted, looking back at me and tearing the cape off as she walked, leaving a trail of black curls on the floor behind her. She led Jessica around where Jasper was standing so they wouldn’t have to get too close to the black girl. Just as she opened the door, I was delighted to realize that I had not gotten to the left side of her head. She left with a short, at the ear haircut on one side, a shoulder-grazing mess of curls on the other. At 5:00 on a Friday, the only hands she would find to fix the cut would have to be her own, and the thought of Suzanne in her marble-floored bathroom wearing her silk robe chopping angrily at her treasured locks just made my whole damn day.

“Care to take a seat?” I said to the girl, gesturing at my chair as I retrieved my cape.

“Richard, what in the name of God are you doing?” Jasper said.

“Saving your sorry white ass,” I replied. “That, and getting ready to give this young lady a haircut.”

He huffed and then sashayed into the office. I knew what he was doing. He was going to call the owner, slash manager, slash entrepreneur extraordinaire, Mr. Rosington at home.

Friday was Rosington’s golf day and he always left early, leaving Jasper and me to close the store. Jasper knew that, he was just so besieged with indignation that he had to do something. The chances of Jasper getting past voice mail were about as great those of Suzanne Yonts having O.J. Simpson’s next child.

The black girl stood eyeing me suspiciously, arms still crossed, smile replaced by an ironic smirk. I took my place behind my chair, the cape folded across my arm.

“Ma’am?” I said with a wave of the hand toward my vacant chair.

She released her arms as she approached me, walking slowly, still not so sure she could trust me not to slip the white cape over my head and pull a noose out of my pocket.

Jasper looked through the open door of the office, the phone in his hand, and then did a double take when he saw the black girl mounting my chair.

“Jasper,” I called out across the parlor. “Go home.”

“Pardon?” he said, the phone still to his ear. He was pissed. He never cocked his right eyebrow that way unless his tail feathers had been royally ruffled.

“You heard me. Go home, work on what you’ll say to Mr. Rosington Monday morning about how I did a colored… just get the fuck out of my face.”

He blinked.

“Richard,” he said curtly, “I have always known you were a snake!”

I hissed at him.

That’s when he became totally incensed. I’d never seen Jasper having such a tiff, what with the whole world going to hell right before his eyes and all.

He slammed the phone down. “You cut your black whore’s hair, Richard,” he said, “but I will see you in Mr. Rosington’s office Monday morning!” Then he straightened his olive-green tie, cleared his throat, and moved toward the door.

Fatima giggled, pouring vinegar in an already-gaping wound.

“Monday morning, Rosington’s office – gotcha,” I said with a wink. “Maybe Suzanne Yonts will drop by and you can all have a circle-jerk.” He said nothing, but I’d bet you he was bawling like an abused stepchild before he reached his Champagne-colored Lincoln.

I rushed to lock the door behind him and to flip the Yes, We’re Open/Sorry, We’re Closed sign around. I lowered the ivory blinds that extend across the full length of the front window before returning to my chair.

“Well,” Fatima said, “you’re either a straight-up kinda guy or you are bizankas.” She was sitting in my chair with her bare arms casually resting on the chrome arm rests and looking up at me over her right shoulder, smiling in a way that would have been seductive in any color.

I pulled the cape around her, letting it settle like a parachute across her knees. The rush of air directed a whiff of Dial soap my way as it blew across her skin.

“Bizankas,” I said.

Her hair fell just across the back of her shoulders and I had to run my hands underneath it to close the snap on the cape, the warmth of her neck greeting my hands. I had never touched a black girl’s hair before, and found it amazingly soft, much softer than I expected. Her hair was not the dry, lifeless stuff you so often see sprouting from the heads of under-kept black women. Instead, it was healthy, shiny, and had been well maintained in a long, shoulder-length blunt cut with no bangs and no layers. She had just enough white in her to take the kinks out of her hair, leaving her adorned with a mess of the loveliest dark curls I’d ever seen .

She had it side parted with the front brushed over so as to suggest it might fall over the right eye at the slightest hint of movement.

Her hair looked perfectly alluring just as it was, but the anticipation of having that head of hair at my creative command lit my wick right up.

“Of course you know I can’t really do your hair,” I said, “until you tell me your name.”

“Fatima.”

“Fatima, what?”

“Fatima’s enough for you to know.” Her voice was round and sweet, the kind of voice beasts and babies stop to listen to.

“Fair enough,” I said, combing my fingers through her hair, enjoying the thick texture and feeling the wetness beginning to settle in my armpits. “They call me Richard.”

In my time, I have cut the hair of a thousand beautiful women… blondes, brunettes, red-heads.

I’ve done some first-major-cuts on some teenage debutantes who would have brought the Pope to his papal knees. I have had some very rich, very powerful, very beautiful women in my chair, their high and mighty heads at my very mercy.

But I had never felt so excited, so alive before a cut as I did with this young black girl sitting before me.

“Yeah, I know,” she said. “I heard your, uh, friend calling you that. Sounded like he wanted to call you something else.”

I laughed. “Yeah, but I’ve been called much worse by much better. Anyway, he’ll be all right after his bubble bath.”

She laughed. Briefly, our eyes met in the mirror.

“What can Frederick’s Salon do for you this evening, Fatima?” I said finally.

Her smile softened without fading completely.

“You are serious, aren’t you?”

“Excuse me?”

“About cutting my hair…you’re willing to do it.”

“Well…maybe I missed something,” I said, “but I thought that’s why you were here.”

She proceeded to roll off an amazing story about how she and her friends decided to go to “white” businesses on Parker street, hoping to be refused so they could sue and split the money – pretty clever, if you asked me.

“Sounds just like what the Parker street merchant association needs,” I said.

“We think so, but I think I’ll leave Frederick’s empty handed.” She rolled her eyes seductively to meet mine.

“Maybe not,” I smirked.

“You know, as much as I would enjoy cutting your hair, it really is in great shape as it is. We don’t have to go through with this.”

“Awwww. Aren’t you sweet?” she said. “You’re very kind, honey, but I have a chance to get my hair done at Frederick’s and you think I’m gonna pass that up?”

I shrugged. “I can do whatever you want, just be sure you want it before you ask.” I had a cocky, yes-I-was-speaking-of-sex, grin on my face and I made sure she saw it.

She raised an eyebrow, surprised but not shocked. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, rolling her big brown eyes up and down my frame.

“Let’s see,” she said with a lilt in her voice as she focused on her image in the mirror. “What does Richard of Frederick’s suggest Fatima lets him do to her hair? What great artistic creation do you envision for me?” she said

“Want a trim?”

“Honey, my mama can trim my hair. You need to do better than that!”

“Fatima, I really don’t want to talk you into something that you might not be happy with.”

She eyed me sternly in the mirror.

“Will you get off the white bread, milkshake, boy scout routine already? I do what I want to do,” she huffed.

“Okay,” I said after a pause, “let me ask you this much – do you want it left long or do you want to try it short?”

She returned her focus on her image in the mirror and bit lightly into her bottom lip.

“Hmmm. I’ve never had it really short before. I’ll trust your judgment…just don’t leave skin showing or I’ll tear your white ass up,” she said with a wink.

“Fair enough,” I said, once again pulling my fingers through her lustrous black hair. “Let me see what we can do.”

She had a tiny face. I had started to look at her with my stylist’s eyes and felt she would look cute as a button with a short bob or even a shorter cut that would show off her high cheekbones and those wonderful eyes. The more I combed through that gorgeous, shiny hair, the more excited I got thinking about cutting it, and the more I felt it would be a shame to waste hair of such rare beauty. So few black girls had hair worthy of a $5 brush, and I was about to turn this treasure into a mess on the floor?

I used the wide tooth comb to arrange her hair in half a dozen ways, looking for ideas. I lifted the hair up in back to reveal her neck. It was smooth and dark and I’d have bet you a week’s wages it would have tasted like a chocolate bar if I had bent down and licked it. It was a neck begging to be discovered, revealed, shown in all its dark glory and I was the one who would liberate it? Sometimes life is so choice.

I sighed.

“What’s wrong?” God, she sounded so sweet, every word was a treasure unto itself.

“Babe,” I said, stepping out, as Joe Jackson put it, “there ain’t a damn thing wrong… with you or your hair. My only problem is I hate to cut hair that is already so beautiful.”

She didn’t respond, but I took the look in her eyes to mean she was flattered.

“I like the texture and the shine your hair has,” I continued, “so I really want to leave enough long hair on top to catch the light while cutting it short enough to bring out your cheeks.”

I paused.

“And I gotta get it off your neck, it’s just too damn fine to hide under all that hair.”

She didn’t say anything and I was beginning to think I had scared her, at least a little. Her eyes were fixed in the mirror and I knew from experience that look meant the client was trying to visualize what they might look like with the new style. It was not a look that revealed the confidence I wanted her, or any client, to have before making such a major change.

“Look, I’ll show you,” I said. I took her hair and pulled it up just right so it looked shorter. “Here,” I said, leaning down till our faces were almost touching, “can you see how much better your cheeks stand out, and how sexy the smooth line of your neck is beneath your jaw?”

She tilted her head down a little and then back up, the smile beginning to grow again.

“Yeah,” she said. “I see that. I don’t know how sexy my neck looks, but I get the point.”

I dropped the hair.

“Are you suggesting Richard of Fredericks doesn’t know a sexy neck when he sees one?”

“If you say so.”

I took my spray bottle and dampened her hair without saturating it. The dampness in her hair accented the smell of her shampoo, releasing a sweet, fragrant scent every time I pulled the comb through it.

I combed through her hair one last time and decided to get rid of the length in bulk rather than in half-inch sections; I’d still have plenty of hair to work with for the style I wanted to create. And, I have to admit, I wanted to see how a black girl handled seeing tons of hair falling to her lap all at once. She sat perfectly still, watching patiently in the mirror. I noticed her breathing picked up when I took the shears from my smock pocket, but I saw no tears.

Without further ado, I pulled the hair flowing from her right temple lightly between my fingers and poised the scissors by her chin.

“Last chance,” I said. Something inside me still didn’t believe her, didn’t believe she’d let me cut her hair, didn’t believe that, somehow, I wasn’t going to get sued.

She rolled her eyes up at me and pursed her lips. I closed the blades.

Fifteen minutes later, I stood behind the chair with my eyes fixed on her and with the hardest erection I’d had since I was fourteen, when Tiffany Morrison sucked my dick. Fatima had sat pretty much still throughout the whole cut, saying little. She said nothing when I clipped the sides across her ears, made no comment when I sculptured the back into a wedge using the clippers, hardly moved a muscle when I cut her bangs–though she had watched intently. The soft sounds of Magic 99FM coming through the ceiling speakers was the only sound, that and the snapping of the blades as the pile of dark curls in her lap grew ever so much larger. The soft hum of the clippers seemed to get her attention and she tensed a bit, then relaxed as I begin cleaning up her neckline before moving higher.

As I moved to unsnap the cape, my thumb grazed her neck. It was smooth and warm. I paused, then rubbed my thumb up toward her ear before slowly moving it back down her neck. She made a sound that said she was pleased, a sort of purring sound. I did it again, but this time I used both thumbs and began lightly rubbing both sides of her neck.

“Sexy neck,” I said.

“You made it that way, if it is,” she said almost under her breath.

I could resist no longer. I stooped and began rubbing my nose up and down her neck, sniffing its sweetness, then licking it lightly. It tasted… just like a black girl should. I kissed it and by the time I worked my way up around her ears, she was purring and ooo-ing and ohhhh-ing and beginning to squirm like she either had the hots or needed to take a dump.

By the time my mouth found hers, she was coming up out of the chair – cape and all – with her lips locked on mine in a steamy kiss that said all barriers were down. The curly, dark strands of hair I had cut off of her went flying as I struggled to unsnap the cape from around her neck. Somehow, the cape came off before I realized I had succeeded in getting it unsnapped. It hung pressed between our bodies as we stood engaged in an unbroken kiss, her eyes closed, her bare arms wrapped around me with surprising strength.

I lured her toward Mr. Rosington’s office. If anyone should have approached the building from the Queen street side, they would have witnessed a scene right out the Oval Office. Like a couple of crabs, we walked sideways until I felt her hip bump against the boss’s desk, her tongue busy teaching mine how they do it in East Town.

I pulled myself away long enough to unbutton her shorts, but she beat me to it. They fell in a circle around her ankles. She untied the knot in her shirt and lost it somewhere on the desk. She was wearing no panties and no bra. I slipped down toward her vagina, dragging my tongue against her skin the whole trip, and found her sweet little cunt cleanly shaved and ripe as a navel orange with juice.

I plunged my tongue in and partook of the best-tasting nectar I have ever experienced. She tasted just like the smoothest cream cheese from the very finest five-star restaurant I’d ever patronized. As I played about her private, licking here, biting there, I found myself on the verge of creaming my Dockers and decided I had better get inside her fast. If she was sexy when she walked in, she was absolutely irresistible with her hair short and with her neck and ears finally revealed. The thought that only moments before I had her head at my very mercy was enough to fuel my rocket, but looking at her and realizing just how awesomely sexy she was just about put my dick in launch mode.

I fumbled through my wallet and found a Trojan. It had been there since the Great Depression and I was hoping like hell dry rot hadn’t set in.

I ripped it open and slipped it on, my wallet dropping to the floor, my pants falling to my feet. By now, Fatima had positioned herself doggie style over old man Rosington’s office chair and was ebbing in her own passion.

I cupped her breasts in my hands and thrust my penis inside her so hard that she cried. I slammed her like a jackhammer, faster and faster and faster as she began breathing faster and faster, taking short, shallow breaths.. I licked her neck, the rounds of her shoulders, her back, her belly button, her sweat greeting my taste buds with just the right amount of saltiness. She turned her head toward me, eyes closed, and searched for me with her tongue.

I took her tongue into my mouth and sucked it, in and out over and over, pausing only to suck her lips. Her mouth was hot and redolent of Juicy Fruit gum.

Faster and faster I fucked that girl till I thought to God I was going to explode. When I stuck my tongue in her ear, she began a moan that said, “baby, here comes the train”. I swear if her cunt didn’t lock down on my dick with more strength and vigor than Tiffany Morrison’s mouth had. I slammed her one final time, pulled her close to me with all my strength, and shot a wad into her big enough to fill a Baptist donations dish. Her moan exploded into a scream that left my eardrums ringing. The warmth of her juices ran down my leg as her screams faded into a mournful cry. She slumped over on the desk, exhausted, tears pouring down her cheeks.

“GOD, you’re hot!” I barked.

“Doneverleame,” she blabbered, trying to regain control of her breathing. I think she, as well as I, would not have been surprised if she had passed out. “Donever…” she cried again, running a hand through her hair as I pulled slowly out of her. I will tell you, I’m no man among men when it comes to the size of my penis. It’s no Oscar Myer, but it will also never hit a homer for the Mets. That never really bothered me, being only average, that is, but that Friday night made me glad I wasn’t sporting a whopper. Fatima’s vagina wasn’t exactly palatial and I felt if I had been bigger I might have done some damage. As Lindsey Buckingham said, if any man’s hand ever made that land, then I think it woulda showed. I popped her cork, that was for goddam sure.

“My place,” I said. “You can stay all night…every night.” My head was resting against her tender breasts, my arms thrown loosely around her curvy, naked hips.

That sweet, tantalizing little smile of hers lifted the corners of her mouth.

We got ourselves together and prepared to leave. Spotting my condom on the floor, I paused and picked it up. I left it on Rosington’s desk, along with a note: “Jasper, enjoy your morning breakfast Twinkie… it’s on me – at least it was!”

These days I work in East Town. I don’t work with chemicals, I refuse to dye or perm, and I wouldn’t apply that coconut-smelling shit to my dog’s ass, but I do just fine anyway, than you. I only cut hair, and I only cut black hair, but I’ve found there’s no shortage of good-looking non-Caucasian girls who need a good haircut. And when I’m done, I go home to my Fatima, whose glistening hair now reaches her shoulder blades again, kept neatly in check only by the precise trims of yours-truly.

“One of these days,” she said yesterday when we were making love, “I must make an appointment with Richard of East town to get my hair whacked off, again. My neck is just too damn fine to hide under all that hair. Dontcha think?”

I just smiled, buried my face in her dark, familiar curls, and pulled her chocolatey body close to mine.

END

 

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