Sleep Is Death

A Night Out

I was sitting in a salon chair with an older woman blow-drying my hair while brushing it. My auburn strands clung to the round brush in her umber-complected hand as she carefully dried them.

Ethan invited me to The Cheesecake Factory in Escondido—an hour away from Julian—to show me different parts of California and celebrate my new job. I hadn't been to that restaurant chain since middle school, but the practice at the time was to get dressed up like it was an expensive, exclusive restaurant.

With that in mind, I found the only salon open after five p.m. and was met with a host of black men, women, and children in the building. It was a black-owned salon and barbershop named Natural Cutz, only a few blocks from the house.

Nicki Minaj's Moment 4 Life flooded the women's section, while Jay-Z and Kanye's Run This Town set the mood for the barbers trimming afros and fades. I heard that woman—the singer named Rihanna I learned of at the bus stop—and was yet again enthralled by the richness in her tone. It was laid-back but flowed with ease through each note and beat, sounding effortless.

Tamika curved the brush and ran the heat across the bristles, setting my ends in upward curls. She smelled like cocoa butter and had jet-black hair in silky finger waves that suited her slender face.

Just as she flicked the dryer off and turned to set her tools on the vanity, Ethan strutted into the building with a smile. He wore a black and white flannel over a grey shirt; dark, baggy cargo pants; and combat boots.

"Looks like I got here in time," he said through a grin so contagious, that it brought one to my blank face.

He leaned against a post separating us from the men feet away and crossed his arms. Tamika unfastened my cape, flicked it up and down in front of me, and brought it behind me.

His eyes dragged across me in every which way, analyzing me like it were his first time meeting me. Then they landed and settled on my newly colored and curled hair. It hung down to my waist in a deep red shade; my roots were dark brown, and the tips were a shade of red so light it bordered on orange.

"Well, what do you think," I asked him, then stood up and turned to the mirror behind my stylist.

She sat the cape on the back of the chair and watched me run my fingers through my beach waves. My hair hadn't felt so warm and clean in years before that moment, and the smell alone almost brought tears to my eyes.

"Did she mean to dye it that way?" Tamika narrowed her eyes at him when he spoke about her like she wasn't standing there.

I turned my head to him and asked with furrowed eyebrows, "What way?"

"Where it's like," he started, rolling his wrist as he searched for the right words to say, "your scalp is dark, the hair is red, and the bottom is yellow."

"Yeah." I admired myself in the mirror. Since moving to Julian, my skin went from almost pale to cashmere brown. I wanted to change my appearance because my roots were overgrown and because I was slowly tanning; blonde and blue hair clashed with my skin tone. "This is how I normally have it styled."

"I think it's nice if you really like it." Tamika gave a disapproving hum in response, then turned away from us to fetch the broom and dustpan a foot away from her. I stared at his reflection, waiting for him to laugh or add more to his statement, but he only set his hands in his pockets and looked around.

After a few beats, I announced that I was ready to leave. I thanked Tamika while she swept my shed hair, and Ethan paid her eighty dollars.

***