Ifemelu Hair Quotes

Later, she said, “I have to take my braids out for my interviews and relax my hair. Kemi told me that I shouldn’t wear braids to the interview. If you have braids, they will think you are unprofessional.” “So there are no doctors with braided hair in America?” Ifemelu asked. “I have told you what they told me. You are in a country that is not your own. You do what you have to do if you want to succeed.

IFEMELU HAD GROWN UP in the shadow of her mother’s hair. It was black-black, so thick it drank two containers of relaxer at the salon, so full it took hours under the hooded dryer, and, when finally released from pink plastic rollers, sprang free and full, flowing down her back like a celebration.

At the checkout, the blond cashier asked, “Did anybody help you?” “Yes,” Ginika said. “Chelcy or Jennifer?” “I’m sorry, I don’t remember her name.” Ginika looked around, to point at her helper, but both young women had disappeared into the fitting rooms at the back. “Was it the one with long hair?” the cashier asked. “Well, both of them had long hair.” “The one with dark hair?” Both of them had dark hair. Ginika smiled and looked at the cashier and the cashier smiled and looked at her computer screen, and two damp seconds crawled past before she cheerfully said, “It’s okay, I’ll figure it out later and make sure she gets her commission.” As they walked out of the store, Ifemelu said, “I was waiting for her to ask ‘Was it the one with two eyes or the one with two legs?’ Why didn’t she just ask ‘Was it the black girl or the white girl?’ ” Ginika laughed. “Because this is America. You’re supposed to pretend that you don’t notice certain things.

Was it the one with long hair?” the cashier asked. “Well, both of them had long hair.” “The one with dark hair?” Both of them had dark hair. Ginika smiled and looked at the cashier and the cashier smiled and looked at her computer screen, and two damp seconds crawled past before she cheerfully said, “It’s okay, I’ll figure it out later and make sure she gets her commission.” As they walked out of the store, Ifemelu said, “I was waiting for her to ask ‘Was it the one with two eyes or the one with two legs?’ Why didn’t she just ask ‘Was it the black girl or the white girl?’ ” Ginika laughed. “Because this is America. You’re supposed to pretend that you don’t notice certain things.

hair away from her face, as though one hand could not possibly tame all that hair. “How nice to meet you,” she said to Ifemelu, smiling, as they shook hands, her hand small,

Mariama finished her customer’s hair, sprayed it with sheen, and, after the customer left, she said, “I’m going to get Chinese.” Aisha and Halima told her what they wanted—General Tso’s Chicken Very Spicy, Chicken Wings, Orange Chicken—with the quick ease of people saying what they said every day. “You want anything?” Mariama asked Ifemelu. “No, thanks,” Ifemelu said. “Your hair take long. You need food,” Aisha

A man with dry, graying skin and a mop of white hair came in with a plastic tray of herbal potions for sale. “No, no, no,” Aisha said to him, palm raised as though to ward him off. The man retreated. Ifemelu felt sorry for him, hungry-looking in his worn dashiki, and wondered how much he could possibly make from his sales. She should have bought something. “You talk Igbo to Chijioke. He listen to you,” Aisha said. “You talk Igbo?” “Of course I speak Igbo,” Ifemelu said, defensive, wondering if Aisha was again suggesting that America had changed her. “Take it easy!” she added, because Aisha had pulled a tiny-toothed comb through a section of her hair. “Your hair hard,” Aisha said.

Let’s go to the kitchen,” his mother said. She reached out and picked off a piece of lint from his hair, and then hit his head lightly. Their fluid, bantering rapport made Ifemelu uncomfortable. It was free of restraint, free of the fear of consequences; it did not take the familiar shape of a relationship with a parent. They cooked together, his mother stirring the soup,