Along the same suspicious lines, Tola very well could’ve told me what she thought I wanted to hear. I was a kid, after all. If she could really read those shells, why didn’t they tell her how much I hated her and Dad? Where were those shells when I had to share my room and bed with Dad’s mistress who was pretending to be just his cousin? Was it the shells that told Tola I was unhappy and suffering in that apartment with them? She more likely had some compassion for me and decided to tell me that I’d be rich and famous so that I’d feel better. (I am not saying this was a terrible thing, but it doesn’t make Tola psychic.) If she was really psychic, she should’ve told me to wear underwear on the day in seventh grade when I broke my ankle and had to get a cast put on my foot while trying to cover my vag with a notebook. Thanks a lot, Tola! The fact that she eventually was proven right about my being famous means nothing. It could just be a coincidence.
5
#BlackGirlMagic
Gabby SidiBae
@GabbySidibe
I need to make friends with a cool girl in my building who wouldn’t mind coming over to help me take my weave out. #goals
6:44 PM—Mar 21 2015
I THINK I LIKE THE IDEA of psychics because I’m often bored with day-to-day things. It’s more fun to fantasize about what will or should happen. My life is way better in my head. I can do anything up there. For instance, I have a recurring and very real fantasy about shaving my head. In my fantasy, I’m standing in a beautifully lit bedroom with French windows. I’m wearing pink silk pajamas, like what TLC wore in the “Creep” video. I’m staring into the distance. Flower petals are floating onto my face, and a soft wind is caressing my pj’s. An electric razor floats through the room into my hands. I slowly buzz away my hair, line by line, until it’s all gone. Then I smile. I’m finally happy.
I’m always working on a movie or TV show, which means that most of the year what I look like is in the hands of more people than I can count. If I want to cut my hair, I can’t do it without discussing it first with four producers, a show runner, and the head of the hair department. I have to ask permission, and then there has to be a meeting. I spend seven months of every year wearing a blonde wig while filming each season of the show Empire. It’s exactly like when I was fourteen and Mom said I couldn’t get a nose ring. Except Empire pays me more than Mom, so I’m more inclined to do what they say. (I still slam my bedroom door and silently mutter, “I hate it here!” under my breath.)
But I’m on vacation now, so my hair is my own again! Right now it’s in long extensions that are twisted into braids. It’s called a Senegalese twist. The twists are a medium brown with supposedly honey brown highlights. Ya know what? The highlights are actually just straight-up blonde, and I need to admit that to myself. This is not the color I wanted. I wanted black hair to match my own natural color. I wanted something subtle, because I’m not the kind of person who takes risks with my appearance. My whole life has been a struggle to blend in, and colored hair feels like drawing a target around my face. So how did I end up blonde?
When I went down to Thirty-fourth Street to the weave store to buy my hair (Yes! I go to the store to buy hair. Don’t pretend you haven’t seen Good Hair), the fast-talking saleswoman suggested I go with lighter colors. She seemed much more confident than I felt, and I was feeling less confident and increasingly uncomfortable by the minute because people were starting to notice me. This wasn’t a great hair day for me. The night before I’d cut out my weave, so I was in the hair shop wearing a wig, a black Yankees cap, and sunglasses. I’d meant to be sort of incognito, but one of the salesclerks had already asked if I’d take a picture with the employees, and a customer had asked if I was “the famous Gabrielle Swordbee.” I wanted to get the hell out of there. I was too uncomfortable to think clearly about highlights, so I just said yes to the saleswoman’s confident assertion that my braids should be brown and blonde. Damn you, Confident Saleswoman!
Now I’m back in my apartment. It’s 1:30 a.m. on Friday night (or Saturday morning?), and I’ve been online all day scrambling to order hair in hopes that I can get my twist restyled in black instead of brown/blonde because fifteen people have already made fun of my hair on Instagram. I got the blonde hair braids installed because I was trying to convince myself to try something new. Be fun! Live a little! That blonde hair I have to wear seven months of the year could be me for real! (?) I thought I’d stop worrying about it once it was done. I should’ve known better than to venture out of my black-to-dark-brown comfort zone. So very disappointing.
I’m not sure why I care so much about those fifteen (and climbing) people and what they have to say about my hair. To be fair, they also hate my dress, but that doesn’t make me feel as bad. I’m used to them hating my clothes. But my hair? NO! Why has God forsaken me this way? The thing is, I’ve conditioned myself to carry a lot of my confidence in my hair. My self-confidence is part hair flips and part tress twirls around my finger. That’s how I flirt. It’s how Momma makes her money. Clothes I haven’t figured out. I’m never sure what I should wear to a fancy event. But hair? I always know exactly what I want my hair to look like: down and flowing with bangs to frame my face. I never wear my hair up. Never! There have been a few attempts. I’ve had stylists comb my hair into high ponytails, but as soon as I walk out the door, I pull out the ponytails and apologize to the stylists, saying, “I’m sorry! I just can’t. Executive decision.” I want to wear a high bun one day, but what I want has nothing to do with what I’m comfortable with. A lot of thought has gone into this, which is why I like to think I’ve figured out my hair. So when someone attacks it, I’m hurt.
When I was a child, hair was my mom’s deal. I had no control over it. On weekends she’d make me put two cushions from the couch on the floor in front of her as she sat on the couch on the remaining cushion. She’d have me sit on those cushions on the floor in between her legs, and she’d braid my hair while she watched all the soap operas she’d recorded during the week.