Discovering the Beauty Supply I

Posted by Minni

It was so cold outside, the bones in my fingers hurt. Even under three layers of thick clothing, my body became rigid with an inescapable chill and my breath turned white in front of my face. Keep in mind, this occurred in the short few steps that spanned from my door to my car. It was nearing the end of January, the thick of winter.

My sister and I stepped out of the door on a Sunday evening in search of a hair conditioner that would better suit my dry, unruly hair.

And from my new apartment on the East side of Detroit (to which I have yet to secure my bearings) we had a lot of exploring to do.

Having spent my early teens and beyond in the suburbs, the concept of a one way street was still rather foreign. And beyond the familiar suburban habits of frequent CVS and Rite Aid, I had no experience. I was at a loss. Where did one get products for their hair in these parts? Needless to say I had, and still have, a lot to learn. What was more, beyond the common offerings of John Frieda, Pantene Pro V, I was most helplessly unfamiliar.

We drove to the end of the block, turned off of Forest onto Mt. Elliot and hoped that something would catch our eyes, perhaps a pharmacy: Walgreen’s, Rite Aid, or so on. And before long we came to the end of the road at Gratiot. There, I made a right turn, because those are the easiest, and not even a block in my sister pointed suddenly and enthusiastically: “There! It says beauty supply!”

Indeed, Just what we needed. It was like the sign was made for us. We had beauty, we needed supplies: perfect.
Out from the car we rushed across the icy parking lot under an opaque winter sky, heads tucked down into our scarves, hands pushed down into our pockets, straight for the door of Sophie’s Beauty Supply. With a tug of a frigid hand, the door opened and the sounds of a cheery wind chime rocking too and fro above the door alerted the staff of our presence. With a hard step of the boot we knocked the ice and snow from our feet, and felt our face tingle at the contact with warm air. I didn’t need a mirror to tell me my nose was pink.

Inside, we were greeted by the doorman who sat on a stool just left o the entrance wearing jeans and a very colorful hoodie and looking rather bored, but very kind and approachable.

For a moment, I paused to take in my surroundings. It was, well, not what I had expected, though rather lovely in its variety. On one wall I eyed a very large earring collection and on another wall, toiletries: tissue, plungers, and so forth, and on yet another wall, a dozen large, stylish handbags, immediately caught my fancy. It had the basic content of a corporate pharmacy, and them some, not to mention a certain urban fashionable appeal that those places so desperately lack. I felt instantly as if I could leave that place with a new wardrobe, along with kitchen appliances and bathroom accessories and still have some money to spend at the Save-A-Lot down the block, all the while looking, um, fly. And it was not until then that I discovered the beauty in the Detroit beauty supply.

Everything including coats, panty hose, scissors, t-shirts, shoe laces, oil burners and shower caps met my eyes and m sister and I had to use our will power as blinders just to reach the aisles hair products. And there were aisles, one after another of hair goo, gel, serum, conditioner, cholesterol, protein, olive oil, shea butter, and so forth, it was rather overwhelming to me, as a newbie to the African American hair experience, and it showed: in my hair and at that moment, my bewildered face.