Highfalutin Finery, by Coffebean

The manicured hand flossing the engagement ring bling--The Jimmy Choo pumps matched perfectly with the “new money” handbag. Its Sex in the City meets Girlfriends mixed with Beauty Shop, served with a double dose of Toni Childs (Girlfriends). There are no out-dated Jet Magazines. The latest bootleg is not being played. Booster lady and sock man won’t be pedaling their products here.

Louis Vuitton, Gucci, Prada are frequent cohabitants of the women who are serviced by my upscale salon in downtown Chicago. The multi-cultural staff and clientele bring an ambiance to the salon that is not present at the Flare for Hair or the Dominican Hair Emporium. The hair dryers suspended from the ceiling, the hardwood floors, and the exposed duct work let me know that this salon has the potential to be bourgeois-central! The career women, the kept women, and the on the grind women, sashay into this establishment with one point intended, to get their hair done, or is it?

No Applebottom sisters, no do-rag wearing, not even Air Max covered feet. No current gossip, celebrity or personal. A Euro-imported receptionist greets you at the door. It is rigid and stuffy! A rolling of the eyes and a salient snub if you dare enter the salon with your mane tamed by the black woman’s holy grail—the do rag.

Perhaps an idle mind is the devil's playground. But my idleness brought questioning. Questioning about the women who are serviced by this establishment. Is there an unspoken assumption that only a “certain” type of black woman can patron this salon? The college educated women, the women who married up, the women who are successful in their careers. Yes, the salon will impress you with the speedy-individualized service (even on a Saturday). Not to mention, the possibility to network with other career women. The salon has a Who’s Who clientele—another bragging point to mention to ones pretentious and snobbish acquaintances. Some women come for the service, some for the status. Snooty, stuck-up, supercilious: It is a premier salon that yields outstanding results and retains a clientele of women with questionable motives for patronage.

Two Weeks Later,

Two weeks later I am back. It’s a brutal 15 degree December Day in Chicago. I pull out my one of a kind, floor length, great coat. I stuff my black leather mini-pumps into my bag and race out of the door with by Black Gucci clinging to my free arm. Its salon day and it has taken more time than normal to get ready. As I race out of the house, I question myself; am I becoming one of those women I am writing about?