I see so-called beauty supply stores filled with lucrative Indian Remy hair weave mountains that contribute to our vain attempt to try to morph ourselves into a Eurocentric standard of beauty. All the while, shop clerks watch us like rude prison guards on the yard, from the time we enter the doors until we exit, as if we might steal something.
Some speak to each other in their native tongue in our presence, smirk or snicker. And you get the sense they are talking about you.
Inside nail shops, technicians wear masks while cleaning, filing and polishing the nails of patrons who inhale the fumes that rush forth like a consuming whirlwind upon entering its doors.
Across the ghetto and also the black suburban landscape, I see gas stations and convenience stores where bulletproof glass partitions separate “them” from “us” and where we slip our cash into an impersonal metal tray. I see restaurants where foreign immigrants sell us greasy fried chicken and fish, or pizza.
I see the rise of non-African-American beauty salons that “specialize” in black women’s hair. Cellphone and urban hip-hop clothing stores run by people outside our community but who see our consumerism as a gold mine.