Calamine, Curls & Camaro Dreams

I was only 13 years old that summer, and my entire world was boxed up and stacked in our living room in South San Francisco.

We were headed for Georgia, a place that, to me, was as far away as the moon. Georgia was just a name on a map, somewhere I’d only thought about when forced to recite state capitals in class.

The only “home” I knew before then was our community in Westborough, foggy mornings, friends who had known me since I knew me, and the kind of comfort that made you think it would last forever.

The fact that we were leaving only really hit me that Saturday, when I realized I was leaving and never coming back. And this was long before the internet, email, cell phones, or even pagers. Ma told me to gather the addresses of all my friends so I could write letters back and forth, but I KNEW that would not be happening.

The parade of family friends coming through our house over the last week to say goodbye didn’t help.

“You know, in Georgia, nobody wears shoes,” one person said.

Another offered, “Don’t be surprised if you have to eat with your hands!”

These people thought this situation was FUNNY, but this was my LIFE they were joking about.

I was THIRTEEN, and those jokes landed like warnings of what was to come.

All the talk had me convinced I was headed for a place where I’d be barefoot, forkless, and friendless—the new kid with nerves and a head full of wild ideas.

But if I was going to be the new kid, I decided I was going to make an entrance. That’s when the California Curl plan became my mission. This was not just any curl; it was a glossy, wet, loose curl, a cousin to the Jerry Curl but, in my mind, way cooler. It was already fading from popularity in California, but Georgia was in another country, and I was sure no one knew anything about a California Curl. I knew that walking in with this look would make me a trendsetter. Maybe even a legend.

“Ma, I need to get a curl before we leave. It’s important.”

She didn’t even look up from the packing. “We’ll see, Hakim. There’s a lot to do.”

Pop heard me and poked his head in from the hallway. He had that sly, sideways grin he used when he wanted to let you know he was in on the joke, even if he never said it out loud.

“Don’t worry, Hawk. We’ll take care of it,” he said, making sure I heard him.

The way he said it, with his calm tone, made me feel like everything would be alright, even though I knew he was just trying to keep the peace while the world shifted under my feet.

I knew it was too late, but it was at that moment that I understood I had failed in early negotiations with my parents about the move. While Trish had lots of questions for our parents about how our lives were about to change, I only had ONE.

“Well, can we get a swimming pool in our backyard?” I asked.

My parents which was all I needed to hear. Now, I was wondering if I had been duped.

Our journey to Georgia was planned weeks before. Two cars: Ma and Pop with Trish in one, Ace and me riding shotgun in the T-top Camaro on the first leg to Denver.

I was in heaven, imagining my soon-to-be California Curl blowing in the wind with the top down, the sun on my face, and the Bay behind us. Ace let me control the radio, and for a few hours, I forgot about everything but the road ahead.

Ace was older, cooler, and had his own agenda. He had to leave us in Denver to fly back to Massachusetts, where he was a scholarship player on the football team. He had just come home for the weekend to help us start the move, but he had to return to school for football practice. After Denver, it would just be me and Trish in the second car.

Robi had recently gotten married and was living in Washington State, where she had begun her studies at the University of Washington and had a new baby, my oldest niece, Maia. So she was going to miss the move completely.

Riding with Trish during that time was an ordeal for me. She was seventeen, about to start her senior year in high school in a new city and state, where she knew no one. And she was HOT about having to move and leave all her friends. And she was mad at me because I felt just the opposite. She barely spoke to me for the months leading up to this day. And when she did, it was with that “big sister” edge that let me know I was one mistake away from being ejected from the car.

The drive to Denver was uneventful. But when we pulled into Nana and Grandpa’s driveway, I could see Trish’s face through the window of the car she rode in with our parents, her jaw clenched and her eyes fixed on the house with a very serious look. We loved Nana and Grandpa, our mother’s parents, but Nana was a force to be reckoned with.

As we all got out of our cars, I decided to walk up to Trish and break the silence between the two of us.

“What’s your problem, Trish?” I asked as I walked up to her.

She snapped back without even looking in my direction.

“My problem is I’m about to spend my senior year in East Point, Georgia, Hakim.

GEORGIA!

And I will not have any of the friends I grew up with for most of my life, during the most important year in school for me. And you’re just standing there grinning like you’re going to Disneyland.”

I shrugged, then whispered in a low voice so as not to get her more upset, “But I think it will be fun.”

She rolled her eyes so hard I thought they’d get stuck. “You’re such an idiot,” she shouted.

I didn’t care. I was thirteen and ready for something new, even if my big sister was determined to make our ride as silent and icy as possible. For the next leg of our trip, it would be just she and I in the car, and I expected fireworks.

Denver was just our first stop: Nana and Grandpa’s house.

Back then, I thought Nana was more like the playground bully who decided you were her favorite target for the day. I was terrified of her. She talked to me like I shouldn’t even be breathing her air, scowling at every request. But somehow, her love always shone through, even when I was mad at her, which was most of the time.

When we got to their house, I tried my best to get Nana to be nice to me. So I asked her about California Curls.

“Nana, do you know how to do a California Curl?”

She ignored me at first, kept stirring her coffee like I was background noise.

Grandpa caught my eye and leaned in, whispering, “You may want to slip out the back door with me and get lost somewhere,” pointing discreetly to his mostly bald head as he whispered. “See what happened when she tried to do my hair?”

We laughed with each other, watching to make sure Nana didn’t see us.

The next morning, Nana made her announcement.

“We’re getting your curl before you leave Denver. And guess what? Your father’s getting one too.”

I almost spit out my juice. “Wait, Pop too? A curl?”

“And your brother is too,” she said.

I was in shock.

When I looked toward Pop for his acknowledgment, he just shrugged, his hands in the air with a look of surrender.

“Nana’s in charge. Don’t ask questions.”

But then he winked at me, the kind of wink that said, “I got you, Hawk.” He was never loud about it, but he was always in my corner, even if it meant getting a California Curl to show his support. And the fact that Ace and Pop were both going to get curls really put my mind at ease, at least for a while.

Although only the three men in our family were getting curls, all of us caravanned to the Paul Mitchell salon. Nana marched in like she owned the place. Paul Mitchell himself was working on a client. I had no idea who Paul Mitchell was at the time, but I did know that Nana was very well respected in fashion circles in Denver.

Nana didn’t hesitate.

Looking at Mr. Mitchell, she said, “Excuse me, Paul. I need this chair.”

He looked up, surprised. “I’m in the middle of—” he started, then stopped mid-sentence, looking confused.

But Nana just cut him off. “You can finish it later. We’ve got family business.”

Mr. Mitchell just threw his hands in the air and said, “Yes, Jessie, it’s all yours.”

He knew Nana on a first-name basis. I didn’t realize until years later that he was famous, but even HE bowed down to Nana, clearing out of that area so fast you’d think the fire alarm went off.

I slid into the chair cautiously, my heart pounding. And there she was, reading the directions on the box, lips pursed, brow furrowed.

That’s when I knew I was in trouble.

“Nana, are you sure you know how to do this?” I asked again softly, a worried look on my face.

She didn’t even look up.

“SHUT UP, NIGGAH. You want to do this yourself?”

I shrank into the chair.

Next, she snapped on a pair of clear gloves and started mixing chemicals, reading the instructions with a frown. Then she turned to me with what felt like a scowl.

“Sit still, boy,” she demanded.

She worked the stuff into my hair, rough as sandpaper, scowling the whole time like I’d ruined her day.

“Ow, Nana, that hurts!”

She didn’t pause.

“You are SORRY, boy! Always complaining. Your parents let all of you get spoiled when you lived in Africa. You need to snap out of that spoiled routine. You are back in AMERICA now and you need to learn to take care of yourself!”

I had no idea what prompted all this, but I continued to sit silently in the chair.

Then she mumbled some other words that I couldn’t hear as she slapped a plastic cap on my head.

“Sit there for an hour.”

Pop slid into the next chair, surprising everyone. Nana got to work on him right away, grumbling under her breath, her face set like concrete.

Ace, being Ace, was walking around flirting with the stylists as I waited for whatever was happening with my hair.

Trish and Ma just watched. Trish had her arms crossed, still thinking about the life she left behind.

Ma sat watching everything, at times clutching her side as Nana barked orders and Pop sat stoically, letting Nana do her thing.

But ten minutes into the hour-long wait for the chemicals to set in, I felt something running down my back.

“Nana, something’s running down my back from my head. I think something’s wrong.”

She glared. “It’s the chemical, niggah. That’s how it works.”

I shifted, trying to ignore the sting. Then another stylist wandered over, saw the chemical running down my neck and the look of pain on my face, and wrapped a towel around me.

“His neck is exposed,” she whispered nervously to Nana, clearly aware of Nana’s hot temper.

But Nana just yanked the towel tighter. “You’ll live,” she said to me, giving me that look that meant I should not open my mouth again.

I wanted to run, but Nana’s scowl told me not to move.

Pop sat quietly, letting Nana work on him. I concluded then that he must be enduring this for me. He’d always found ways to show he had my back, even if it meant risking his own scalp.

Ace went last. By then, Nana was probably honest with herself that she had no clue what she was doing and protected the grandson she loved the most, the one everyone loved the most, including me, Ace. He got off with a little discomfort, but nothing like what Pop and I endured. Ace never complained before leaving to fly back to school for football practice.

And I learned later that he had washed that curl out as soon as he got back to school.

We stayed one more night at Nana and Grandpa’s before beginning the second leg of our trip. Even though all three of us were hurting from the hair treatment, not one of us said a word to Nana or Grandpa. I wanted to, but Pop kept telling me to stay silent.

“Just let your grandmother love you, Hawk. You made her day yesterday. Never forget yesterday. One day you will have a story to tell about this day!”

The next morning, we loaded up the cars and hit the road. Now it was me and Trish in the second car, and she was even moodier than before. But her mood quickly changed with what happened next.

Somewhere in the middle of Kansas, Ma pulled off at a rest stop to help Pop with his back. And when she raised the back of his shirt, I froze.

“Pop, what happened to your back?” I yelled, and Trish screamed as we looked at him.

He just shrugged, wincing. “Nana’s got a heavy hand.”

His back looked like it had been in a fire. Ma laughed so hard at our reaction that she had to sit down on the curb, tears streaming down her face. But Pop never complained. The unspoken rule was no one speaks bad about Nana. She was royalty to us.

“Why did Nana do this to me?” I moaned, pressing a cold cloth to my neck, which seemed to hurt worse after seeing Pop’s back.

Trish just glared at me. “You wanted that curl so bad, Hakim. Now you got it. At least you’re happy about something.”

I glared back at her, but deep down, I knew she was right.

We eventually made it to East Point for the first time after another full day of driving and checked into our hotel. I wasn’t happy about my curl. It looked nothing like the “California Curl” that was advertised on TV every other day. I also noticed right away that I didn’’t see anyone in Georgia with a California Curl, and thos that noticed me seemed like they were looking at Chia Pet, or something. I just counted on the chemicals wearing off in the next few weeks before school started.

But I was in for a big surprise.

We learned, after settling into our hotel that first night, that school in Georgia started much earlier than it did in California, and the first day was the very next day. I know most families would not put their kids through the stress of going to school the day after finishing a cross-

country drive in four days, and with a forest fire still burning on one of their kid’s necks. But I guess that’s the downside of being raised by two educators who believed there is no reason to ever miss a day of school.

With school starting the next day, I had no time to recover and no time to hide. So I walked into Briarwood High with my California Curl, the only one I saw in the building. I don’t want to say nobody had ever heard of it, but if they had, they weren’t talking. Heads turned. Whispers followed me down the hall.

One kid leaned over in the hallway. “Hey, man, what happened to your hair?”

I tried to sound cool.

“It’s a California thing.”

He squinted. “Looks like it hurts.”

I was devastated.

Ma laughed out loud again that night when I told her about my first day at school with my California Curl.

“You’ll survive, Hakim,” Ma said in the middle of her laughing. “That’s what makes it a story!”

Pop eventually healed and laughed about his failed curl for years. But I only remember the pain and humiliation of my 8th grade photo, immortalized with that jacked-up curl. The chemical juice stains Pop and I left on the headrests of both cars became a running joke.

And even with all the pain, I kept spraying that moisturizer every few hours, determined to keep my curl looking “moist” like the commercial, even if it annoyed everyone in the car.

Years later, Nana moved to Atlanta after Grandpa died. By then, she was a little old lady, her body frail, her voice weaker, but she never stopped commanding every room she entered. I’d like to think she gave me some of her swag with all that tough love. In her final years, she’d call me just to tell me how much she loved me, how proud she was of me. I was a blessing to her life, she said. But really, she was a blessing to mine.

Funny how the things that embarrass you most as a kid become the stories you treasure as an adult. That’s the wisdom of the heart, even when it’s hidden under a pile of burned necks, calamine lotion, a Camaro full of curl juice stains, and a whole lot of laughter.