Polished Off Read Free

a man I’d been dating since we met in May. A political reporter for the Atlanta Journal-Constitution , he’d mentioned an upcoming interview with the Washington Post . We weren’t serious or anything—he lived four hours away, for heaven’s sake, and I’d only known him three months—but I’d miss him if he moved north. The clatter of the wooden blinds against the door brought my head around. I stared for a moment at the tall, African American woman crossing the salon. I almost dropped my root beer. “Althea?”
    Althea Jenkins, our aesthetician, was the same vintage as my mom, give or take a couple of years, and had been her best friend since before they both lost their husbands in the early eighties. Althea’s husband was murdered, and my dad died of pancreatic cancer. They’d started the salon, Violetta’s, together as a home business to make ends meet, doing hair and facials for friends in my mom’s kitchen. Over the years, the business had expanded and taken over the front rooms—dining room, parlor, half bath—of the old Victorian my mom inherited. Althea was salt of the earth: a no-nonsense, Baptist-church-going, outspoken woman who had no tolerance for fools. I’d never seen her wear anything but polyester-blend pants and tops or loose cotton skirts and blouses from fashion emporiums like J.C. Penney and Sears. Today . . .
    “Althea?” My mom’s voice held the same disbelief swirling through my head. “What in the name of heaven are you wearing?”
    A tall woman with a proud bearing, Althea always had a commanding presence. In the ankle-grazing—what was it? a caftan? a tunic?—red, green, and black patterned garment, she was impossible to miss. Her gray-flecked afro was shorter than when I’d last seen her, following the curve of her skull and throwing her prominent cheekbones and deep-set eyes into sharp relief. Large circular earrings—some kind of bone or a facsimile—dangled from her lobes. At my mom’s question, Althea’s chin, always tilted up a hair like she was ready to take whatever the world threw at her, jutted forward.
    “Like it?” Her tone dared any of us not to. “It’s a traditional African kente caftan.” She spun slowly so the full sleeves, really just slits in the fabric, belled out.
    “Is it machine washable?” Mom asked. She plugged in a curling iron to finish her client’s hair. Close to eighty, Euphemia Toller had faded blue eyes that widened as she took in Althea’s new attire.
    “It’s striking,” I offered.
    “Are you going to a costume party?” Euphemia finally asked, shifting on the booster Mom had to use to raise her high enough to cut her hair.
    Althea glared at her. “I’ve decided it’s time I explore my heritage,” she said loftily, “and reclaim it for myself.”
    “Your hair? Did you lose it?” Euphemia asked, cupping a hand to her ear. She was deaf as a tree stump, except when it came to gossip; then, her hearing put a bat’s to shame. “It does look shorter.”
    “Not hair. Her-i-tage,” Althea said loudly. “My roots. My cultural history.”
    “What prompted this, Althea?” I asked. I crumpled the A&W can and tossed it in the recycle bin.
    She looked down her nose at me, trying to decide if I was making fun of her. Apparently satisfied, she said, “Kwasi says it’s important to know where you come from in order to figure out where you’re going.”
    I didn’t point out that she came from small-town Georgia, as did her parents and grandparents. She’d never been nearer the African savannah than watching The Lion King on DVD.
    “Kwasi’s the man you’ve been seeing? The teacher from the community college?” Mom asked, removing Euphemia’s cape and escorting her to the counter. Euphemia counted out the correct change in crumpled dollar bills and quarters and left with a last disbelieving glance at Althea.
    “He’s a professor,” Althea corrected her. “He’s designed a cross-disciplinary major in Multicultural and