Days turned into weeks, and my schedule became increasingly packed. Ci Xing no longer needed to assist me with my classes-I had somewhat mastered the art of teaching the children, and my Chinese had improved, albeit slightly. The parents of my students had also grown familiar with me. Some of the bolder ones would come to school to take pictures with me, their children, and their families. At first, it felt overwhelming, but as I settled into the rhythm of life here, I began to understand. For many of them, this might be their first-and possibly last-encounter with a Black person. Besides, they were friendly, and a simple photo didn't hurt anyone.
One afternoon, after finishing my class, I watched as the children headed off to lunch, followed by a supervised walk and their usual nap. Tomorrow was the weekend, and I had no classes to teach. I decided it was time to tackle a personal task: removing my braids and giving my scalp the care it desperately needed. Although I washed my braids regularly, my scalp longed to breathe after over a month of being confined. I planned to ask around for a salon that could handle my hair type.
After lunch in the staff room, I sought out Ci Xing to discuss the matter.
"Ah, I'm not sure there's a salon in Huangshan that can do your hair properly," Ci Xing said, furrowing her brow. "Wait, let me ask around. There are a few aunties who do traditional Chinese braids, but your hair is different from ours, our braids are also different. It's better to find a trustworthy salon."
"Thank you," I said, watching as she picked up her phone and began typing furiously.
"You should also join WeChat, Xiaohongshu, or Dianping," Ci Xing advised, glancing up briefly. "These platforms can help you connect with other foreigners who've been living in China longer. They might know places that offer the services you need."
"Oh, thank you. I just downloaded WeChat a few days ago. I'll try Xiaohongshu too," I replied.
After a few moments, Ci Xing looked up from her phone. "Okay, I've asked around. The nearest place that might work for you is two to three hours from here. But there are local salons nearby. If you show them how to do your hair, they'll try their best."
"Alright, thank you, Ci. Please send me the location of the salon around here. I'd rather not travel two to three hours," I said.
"Sure. Let's add each other on WeChat," Ci Xing said, extending her phone to scan my WeChat QR code.
The next day, armed with the salon's location, I took a thirty-minute bus ride, carrying my scissors, combs, and everything else I needed to take down my braids. Since this salon wasn't accustomed to working with my hair type, I planned to guide them through the process. I figured I could do mini twists on myself later. My afro was big and voluminous, and while it looked great, leaving it out for over a month without a protective style wasn't ideal.
When I walked into the salon, the room fell silent. Several women were inside, two of whom were already working on clients. A woman approached me, her expression a mix of curiosity and hesitation.
"Hello," she said in heavily accented English.
I smiled, knowing this would be a challenge. Although I had learned some Chinese, I was far from fluent. I also knew that Chinese wasn't just Mandarin-there were numerous dialects that sounded nothing like it. I pulled out my phone, opened Google Translate, and explained what I needed.
The woman's face lit up with understanding, and soon, three other stylists joined us. I walked them through the step-by-step process of taking down my braids, and I was impressed by how quickly they adapted. They carefully cut the braids at the length I indicated, and the takedown process began. With Google Translate, we managed to have simple conversations.
"America thinks Chinese are bad!" one auntie said, her words translated by the app.
"I don't think so," I replied. No one had the authority to declare who was good or bad-actions spoke louder than words. I thought about how Black people were often treated in America, reduced to stereotypes in the minds of many, though they covertly hid it, many black people could tell. People didn't bother to see us as individuals; they saw only the color of our skin and the assumptions that came with it. How could anyone judge others without first examining themselves?
"You are good," another auntie said, her words translated by the app. I smiled faintly. I wouldn't call myself perfect, but I appreciated the kindness I was shown here. It was something I would always remember.
The takedown process took nearly two hours. I also guided them through washing my hair, and they quickly got the hang of it. By then, the other stylists had finished with their clients and gathered around to observe. Some of them curiously touched my hair, as if it were a rare artifact. I wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry.
Next came blow-drying, which proved to be a bit of a challenge for them. Since I had brought my own blow dryer, I plugged it in and demonstrated how to section and dry my hair. Five or six heads leaned in, watching intently as if taking mental notes.
One auntie asked to try, and after I finished the first section, she took over, repeating the process on the others. The rest of the stylists observed closely, their curiosity palpable. When everything was done, one of them asked if I wanted to straighten my hair, but I declined. I had spent years avoiding heat, and my hair's natural volume had increased with time because of that.
The aunties helped me style my hair into a big, fluffy puff. When we were finally done, I paid them for their services and headed back, four hours later. Had I traveled to another town, it would have taken even longer.
As I walked back to the bus stop, I couldn't help but smile. The day had been an adventure, filled with curiosity, laughter, and a few awkward moments. But it was also a reminder of how small acts of kindness and understanding could bridge even the widest gaps.
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