Salon Palava

It was another hot afternoon in the city, though I’m not really sure if you’d call it a city. People from Lagos or Abuja might call it a village, but we call it a city because, well, anywhere you are, there’s always a “city” nearby. I had driven over two hours just to get to Madam Felicia’s Salon. It is easily the best in town! Whenever I make the trip, I have a routine: a cold drink, catfish pepper soup from that neighbor whose fish is the absolute best, I always buy extra to take home, and then the hair session. I do it so that when I get back to the village, everyone turns their neck to ask, “How is your hair so beautiful? Where did you make it?” And I just smile and say, “Far away from here!”

But today, my smile vanished the moment I stepped inside. The place was packed. Oh no, this is exactly what I hate! I had called Madam Felicia three days ago to book an appointment, and she promised me a slot. I didn’t expect to see a crowd, though I suppose I’m not the only woman who loves good things. A woman near the counter, already under a dryer, muttered to her friend, “Hm, this place just dey full everyday.” Another woman sitting by the door added, “Abeg, make person do my hair quick quick.”

As I sat down, one of the staff members ran toward me. I couldn’t see her face clearly at first because of the crowd, but her odor definitely preceded her. “Such a smelling girl!” I said out loud. My bad. I really don’t know how to keep my mouth shut when things are going bad.

The girl froze, and the entire salon went silent. Madam Felicia looked up from a client’s weaving, her comb suspended in mid-air. A few women sitting nearby exchange glances, their eyes wide. One whispered to another, “Omo, e don set.”

“Ah-ah! My sister, soft pedal now!” Madam Felicia called out, her voice dripping in thick Pidgin. “Blessing, you no use that ‘spirit’ deodorant wey I buy for you this morning? You wan make my customers run go another salon?”

Blessing looked like she wanted the ground to swallow her. “Madam, I use am o! I even rub am for neck and underarm!”

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Before I could even respond, a cloud of mist suddenly hit me in the face. Hiss! hiss! hiss! It was Mrs. Eze, the richest woman in the room, draped in lace that probably cost more than my car. She had pulled a massive bottle of “Parisian Oud” from her designer bag and was spraying it with the aggression of someone extinguishing a fire. The perfume was so strong it felt like a physical weight in the air. Within seconds, the scent of Blessing’s sweat was replaced by a floral explosion that was somehow even more suffocating.

“Shush!” Mrs. Eze barked, still pumping the nozzle. “This is how a woman should smell. Like a garden, not like a construction site! This is the problem with all these ‘modern’ girls. You want to call yourselves feminists, but you can’t even remember to be feminine.”

I started coughing violently, waving my hands to clear a breathing space. “Mrs. Eze! Please! You’re turning this place into a gas chamber! And for your information, feminism has nothing to do with whether someone uses deodorant or not.” From a corner, another customer started coughing too, shouting, “Abeg, make person breathe!”

Mrs. Eze stopped spraying and looked at me with deep pity. “My dear, I know you go to the ‘big city’ often, but you are confused. Feminism is just a fancy word for women who want to be men. They want to stop cooking, stop looking pretty, and start dragging the headship of the home with their husbands. God forbid! If a woman is too ‘equal,’ she loses her fragrance.” A woman waiting near the dryer nodded vigorously, shouting, “Na true you talk, Mrs. Eze!”

Madam Felicia let out a loud, mocking laugh. “Mrs. Eze, abeg leave that talk! If feminism mean say I go get my own money to open this salon and buy motor, then call me the leader of feminists! Wetin concern equality and smelling like one whole flower shop?”

“It concerns everything!” Mrs. Eze insisted, lifting the perfume bottle again. “If you give these girls ‘rights,’ they think they have the right to offend our noses!” Another client waiting called out, “But standard must be standard, Madam Felicia!”

I leaned back, still trying to catch my breath as the Parisian Oud settled into my lungs. “Mrs. Eze, feminism is simply about choice. It’s the reason I can drive myself here, and the reason you can afford that perfume with your own business profits. It’s not about dragging chairs; it’s about making sure everyone has a seat at the table. But right now, the only ‘right’ I want is the right to oxygen!” A younger woman by the mirror whispered, “Yes o, choice is everything.”

Madam Felicia clapped her hands. “Gbam! Correct talk! Blessing, abeg go back of shop go wash your body with that soda soap. Mrs. Eze, put that your ‘chemical weapon’ inside bag. Make we start this hair before sun go down!”

I sighed, finally taking a sip of my now-lukewarm drink. Between the perfume, the politics, and the pepper soup waiting in my car, it was just another typical day in the “city.”

Caught at 6pm