BY NYASHA PILOTO

It had been a month of me adjusting to my new normal–Westchester. New York. My apartment was in the leafy suburbs of Hartsdale, and I loved it. The birds chirped under the blue summer skies, and in the winter, the high school children stood by the bus stop with their frozen fingers crossed that the school bus would not make it through the thick white blankets of snow. I became used to passing my neighbors with a simple wave of acknowledgement or a cheery salutation, making sure that I do not necessarily prolong my conversation before running a risk of being that “nosy” neighbor.

I grew up in a Shona Zimbabwean culture where if you run out of sugar for your tea, you mindlessly grab your tin sugar mug and knock next door. The door is left wide open as an unquestionable gesture of “come in and sit down.” We sit down and discuss health and family, the two most important aspects of life. Having exchanged salutations, I unapologetically ask for sugar, and as the host grabs the sugar tin for me to fill up in my mug, I am asked to stay for a meal, tea or cookies; depending on what the host has in the kitchen at the time. This was everyday neighborly life.

I wholeheartedly appreciated the notion of space in America. Back at home I sometimes wished to go just a day without knocks on my door, particularly if I was on a writing streak, or just needed to hear myself think. Though, I did miss the knocks here and there and made the most of car park talk that I could strike up.

A month in, I decided I needed to get my hair done. Hartsdale did not have tree salons that I could walk up to and negotiate a price for a style. Tree salons in Zimbabwe are spaces under magnificent shade-giving trees where a hairstylist places a chair, hears your price to offer, and immediately begins braiding your hair. If you have a strong rapport with the stylist, he or she can braid your hair on credit, and when you eventually have the money to pay, you can do so. This is not to say that Zimbabwe does not have upmarket salons or hairdressers that visit your home for in-home services. I just preferred supporting individual hair-stylists that could not afford the rent for a salon shop.

Off I went visiting the nearest hair salons in my neighborhood with my afro hair blown out. The first salon I naively visited was a wake-up call. I was greeted by a lady who had an inviting disposition accompanied by a worried look. “Hi there. Welcome to x salon,” she said, “what can we do for you today?” “I was wondering if I can get my hair braided?” She looked at my hair with the worried expression plastered on her face and said, “I’m sorry I don’t think I can help you there, perhaps I can refer you to another place?” (Just then I realized I had to do some research regarding afro kinky hair salons in suburban New York.) She apologetically looked at her work colleagues and they joined in on the expression. “Oh that’s ok, don’t worry about it,” I said as I walked away chin up and a smile on my face. I had to do more homework.

Harlem hair salons were highly recommended by African diasporans in New York. I went to Harlem 125th street with two women from Africa that lived in my complex: Amanda and Oluwa. Amanda stated that I should have covered my hair if I wanted to walk without “pressure to get braided.” I didn’t understand what she meant, and Oluwa from Nigeria

agreed in laughter. I was soon to find out.

The division of labor is not only found in the concept of African farming. This concept can apply to any form of African workmanship in any parts of the world! Two African women with accents that appeared Senegalese approached me before having left the doors of Grand Central and asked me if I wanted to braid my hair. “Wanna braid miss?” I responded that I did, and Oluwa was quick to whisk me away. The two women followed and walked down the pavement without relenting. Wanna Braid Miss, Wanna braid Miss! The two women spotted another woman with hair thicker and longer than mine, and proceeded to run to her hair “rescue.” I quickly understood that Wanna Braid Miss is client-spotting, marketing and sales all in one, regardless of whether you wish to get braided or have a particular braider.

Oluwa had thick box braids in the shape of triangles. I immediately fell in love with that style and asked her to take me to her particular hairdresser. As we approached Oluwa’s hair salon, the scent of Africa filled my nostrils. Cowskin, okra, and trotters were boiling in rosemary and coriander spices mixed with mint herbs. Back home even the most elite of families cook this meal on an open fire in the backyard because of its infused taste of soot and fire-wood smoke. This meal is marked as a special occasion meal where people gather in celebration.

This particular dish lacked the soot infusion because it was prepared on a gas stove in the back room of the salon for the hairdressers’ lunch. It no longer symbolized celebration, but group affordability. Having been greeted by the scent of food which left me nostalgic, the blaring television graced us with a Nigerian movie that entertained customers and hairdressers alike.

“Where are you from, my sister-wooo?” asked my braider in the ever-beautiful Nigerian accent. I responded telling her I am from Zimbabwe and I was met with “Oh you are Mugabe!” This marked the beginning of a wonderful relationship at the salon. My braider fast became my confidante and guide around the varying dynamics of a bit of Africa in New York City.

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Nyasha Piloto is a Zimbabwean digital content creator based in Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe. She attended high school in Westchester, New York City.