Monthly Archives: April 2013

Essay 3 Draft Cover Letter

Nakeisha Lyric Essay

COVER LETTER:

Dear Reader,

For this final project I wanted to focus on the significance of hair. But then as I wrote about my experience I saw that my piece was starting to focus more on the shared insecurities of women who see the salon as a safe haven for secrets and gossip. Looking back, I feel like in some weird way, gossiping with other women at these salons helped them cope with their own faults and insecurities. I think that it gave them comfort to know that there were other women out there who experienced and felt the same things that they did. So unlike my second essay, this piece deals more with the mindset of black women in general—or at least those that I’ve had to listen to in most beauty salons. I tap into what these women perceive as beautiful, and how this affects how they view themselves. Even more importantly, these ideas eventually impacted how I saw myself.

This draft for essay 3 feels like more like a draft of my draft, because so many topics are incorporated here and it was really difficult for me to narrow it down to one specific thing. I feel like I might have included too much, and I actually had to cut out a lot of what I originally wrote, but even in this draft I feel like there’s more that’s not needed. The writing process for this was absolute torture. I found myself writing out all the details of these conversations I had eavesdropped on at the time, and it was all turning out to be way too much. My greatest challenge was finding a way to filter through the unnecessary details without completely eliminating the voices and personalities of the customers and stylists. I also worry that I packed a little too much information into this piece.

For this essay, I took a stab at using more metaphors and similes, because my original goal was to make this piece sound poetic. My favorite is actually my first line, where I compare my original curls getting ironed to raw meat being cooked. But in general, I wouldn’t say that I’ve mastered this craft because I had a pretty hard time trying to create them. I want all of my symbols to be creative and original, but then once I create them, I have no clue if I’m still coming off as cliché.

So this leads me to the first question I’d like to ask you, the reader: Would you say that any part of my essay is cliché, and if so, which part(s)? Also, which part of my essay do you believe is the strongest, or what stood out to you the most?

Thanks for reading my work, and hope you enjoy!

Sincerely,

Nakeisha Campbell

ESSAY 3 DRAFT:

Pressed to Kill

 

The strands of my hair sizzled like raw meat on a skillet.

The heated comb of iron glided so slowly that I feared my hair would be burned. The steam from my ironed hair, blended with smells of hair sheen, chemical relaxers and hair grease, created the most unpleasant and suffocating odor. But despite the smell, I inhaled deeply.

I could barely breathe. Instead I choked, almost tasting the sour mix of hair spray and grease and relaxer.

My ears were ringing from all the noise. Too many conversations took place at once, and it was impossible to process most of what I heard.

The women were like tone-deaf members of a choir, each of them trying to out-sing one another. Occasionally, the background music of hair dryers would be switched on. Then their voices would burst forth with a new kind of energy as they tried to drown out the machinery.

You’d think that they were trying to call out to God Himself.

 

“Oh, she got GOOD hair!” yelled old lady from underneath one of the dryers.

“She sure do!” shrieked another woman with a head full of curlers. “I swear, mixed people have the nicest hair…”

“You’re tellin’ me!” said the old lady, looking wide-eyed. “Shoot, I’d take some mixed hair over these naps ANY day.”

 

The soft-cushioned leather seat started to feel like concrete against my thighs. I could feel the heat of the comb against the back of my neck and I gripped the arms of my chair as if my life depended on it. If I had “good hair,” then I wouldn’t have to endure this torture in the first place.

I caught a glimpse of my mother who sat only a few feet away from me, fanning herself with a wrinkled church bulletin she had pulled from her bag. Of all of the loud voices in the salon, she was the only one who remained completely silent. She occasionally exchanged smiles and “hellos” with the people who sat next to her, but the exchanges never went further than that.

She was gazing at my hair, but seemed to be lost in her own thoughts. As if sensing m eyes on her, she suddenly moved her eyes to my face and she blinked. She gave me a wink and grinned. And I returned a wide smile.

 

“Turn left.”

My stylist, Maxine, abruptly swung my chair away from my mother and turned my head sideways before I could process her voice or even figure out which way was left. My smile disappeared as quickly. Several strands of my hair were combed into my face while she straightened my hair from the back. But then I peeked through my jungle of hair, careful not to move my head while my stylist fried through a new batch of hair. Sitting across from me was an old woman who looked old enough to be my grandmother. Her stylist, who looked about thirty years old, had a pained expression on her face.

 

“Your hair is lookin’ so brittle, Miz Taylor. When last did you do your protein treatment?”

“Girl, I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, my hair is perfectly fine. I don’t need no protein treatment… You’re just tryna get me to spend all of my money.”

“No no no, Miz Taylor, it’s just that I’ve noticed your hair is very dry and it’s breaking. It needs more protein and conditioner—“

“I don’t want no protein or conditioner! All I came here for is a wash and set.”

“Alright, Miz Taylor… If that’s what you want.”

‘Mizz Taylor’ looked a lot like a grown child, with her knitted brows and huge pout. I stared at the lanky wet strands of gray hair that hung down to her shoulders. Saw the way her stylist carefully combed through the fine strands with trembling hands. But despite how careful she was, after each glide, small clumps of hair were pulled out with the comb.

 

“Bend your head.”

Before I could react, I felt her hands grasp my head and tilt in downward, as if controlling a machine. When she let go, I froze, feeling both annoyed at her impatience and afraid that the slightest budge would cause me to get burned. My head was bent so low that my chest began to hurt. I gazed at the tile floor

 

“Hey Max, you’ll never believe who I saw in church last Sunday!” one voice rang.

“Who?” my stylist answered.

“Nicole!” the woman yelled.

“You’re lyin’!” Another voice chimed in.

“Are you sure you weren’t seeing things that day?” my stylist asked. I felt her pause, her open hand rested on the top of my head as she spoke to her customer.

“Girls I swear, I’m telling y’all the truth. Chick had on a blue mini dress with heels she could barely walk in. And don’t even get me started on the ridiculous neckline on her dress. She might as well just let those things hang out in the open.”

“Oh, dear Lord, that definitely sounds like her.” my stylist said with a sigh.

“Sounds like she went to church to find herself a new man…”

“And she had the nerve to show off her jewelry in church! Wavin’ around her left hand from the pew so she can show off her new ring!”

“Hmph, I bet you that bling as fake as her weave.”

“And those skimpy legs looked like drum sticks.”

“I can imagine!”

 

Max raised my head slightly and shoved a wooden spoon into my hand, breaking my concentration. “Hold this over your ear.”

 

I grasped the wooden spoon and held the wider end against my small ear, careful to cover it completely. I tried to sit as still as I could, but I began to fidget uncontrollably. Getting my sides straightened was the worst part.

 

“Calm down, calm down,” said Max soothingly as she pulled me back to the chair again. “It’s just the steam you’re feeling. You have to stay still.”

But I couldn’t. I was either trembling or cringing each time the hot comb came closer.

I tried to take deep breaths, but the odor made my eyes water. I couldn’t clear my head because the voices were overpowering and it was hard to think. Every muscle in my body stiffened as I tried to sit motionless.

Meanwhile, Max carried on with her conversation, laughing and pausing while she handled my hair.

And suddenly, I felt a hot sting on my temple and jumped so hard that I dropped the spoon. Max also jumped in surprise, causing the hot comb to accidentally touch the tip of my ear.

“Owww!!!”

And just like that, the choir was slowly silenced by my cry of pain. I could already feel their eyes on me, both curious and judgmental.

“Oh, now I know you don’t have the nerve to be tender-headed with all this thick hair!” Max chuckled.

“Excuse me?”

Now everyone’s attention had turned to my mother, who happened to be glaring at Max. The crowd was excited and hungry for drama. A woman who pretended to read a copy of Vibe magazine let out a low whistle.

 

I took this opportunity to turn around and look at Max’s reaction. She simply stared back at my mother in confusion, shaking her head.

 

“That’s just rude. Don’t assume that my child can handle being burned because her hair is thick; it’s your responsibility to be careful with that hot comb. And if you burn her again, I’m going to the owner.”

All eyes were back on Max, who looked pale and frightened. It was like witnessing an angry tiger and a baby kitten. “Oh, no that won’t be necessary,” Max said. “I’m so sorry, it won’t happen again.”

And in the awkward silence that ensued, I could hear Ms. Taylor’s voice:

“You know, Ms. Campbell… If I were you, I’d demand a discount.”

 

My mother, still fuming, did not bother to answer. She only watched Max’s gentle hands in silence.

The rest of the women, still shocked and intimidated by this seemingly quiet woman’s sudden outburst, were reluctant to return to their regular, jovial conversations, for they feared that they might be her victims. But they continued to talk quietly, despite the tension that still hung in the room.

 

I wondered what they would say about my mother and me when we were gone.

For my final essay, I initially planned to expand on the same story that I covered for my second essay. I thought it would be fun to experiment with the structure and how I told it. But then I thought of a similar experience that might fit better for a lyric essay: My worst experience at the hair salon. It’s also a childhood experience, but this time I will talk about getting my hair pressed (straightened with a hot metal comb) for a party.

For this piece I really want readers to feel what I was feeling. I want them to experience the chaos and confusion of a cluttered salon, to react to the pointless gossip I was forced to hear, and to smell the filthy odor of burnt hair and cheap perfume in a salon with no windows. I want them to see what it’s like to be in a nine-year-old’s shoes, stuck in a high chair with a scalding hot comb against her scalp. I often say that words can’t describe how embarrassing and painful this experience was, but hopefully, this lyric essay will change that.

This fits into a lyric essay category because it will be very poetic, and it will depend a lot on imagery. I intend to use a lot of description for this, so I want the details to be really vivid. I want it to flow like a creative poem because I want it to have rhythm, so I’ll be experimenting a lot more in terms of the structure.

For now, I plan to go through the experience step-by-step and build up to the climax. To signify the shifts between each main point I might use paragraph breaks, but I’m still thinking of other options. And as for the length, I think it will be about 5 pages.

For lack of a better title, so far I’m thinking: Pressed to Kill

Similes

As empty as a cookie jar within a child’s reach

As weak as the delicate silk of spider webs

Gathered together like sewn pieces of thread

As rough as a stubbly beard

Trembling like a racing pulse

Praying like a frightened child

Bouncing like a coin across the water

Smiling like a rich gambler

 

Metaphors

Heart of sand

Mountains of frozen tears

War is death

The ocean is a blanket of silk

The moon is a beacon of hope

This house of hope

My love is an endless sea

Writing is a battlefield

 

Poem

I stand by the shore,

Clutching a thin shawl around my shoulders,

Trembling like a racing pulse.

The harsh wind is cold and unforgiving,

Biting at my icy, cold flesh.

 

I look ahead at the water.

The ocean is a blanket of silk

That ripples with the whistling wind.

 

I reach into my pocket and pull out a pebble-sized rock.

I roll the smooth pebble between my thumb and forefinger

Before I toss it into the ocean.

It crashes against the silky surface,

Bouncing like a coin across the water

 

I dig my toes into the wet sand

And enjoy the grainy sensation.

I look down at my feet and I can see the grains of sand

Being pushed and pulled by the water

These tiny specks of sand that are washed away,

Bit by bit, into this endless sea of blue

 

And I suddenly think

Of how much I’ve changed,

Of how much I’ve lost,

Of the tiny bits of me

That have slowly been washed away

 

I can feel myself fading,

Like a helpless creature with

A heart of sand.