Golden Comb Research Paper

I instinctively squeeze my eyes shut. The distinctive odor of chemicals and the sweet aroma of coconut oil intermix in the air and the monotone sound of scissors and clippers fill my ears and the warm water streaming down my scalp overwhelm my senses. Once again I’m sitting up in my chair and before me are stacks of hair magazines filled with minority women modeling bold or day-to-day hairstyles. Optimistically flipping through the pages of one of the magazines, I stop mid way through, “This one,” I say assertively while I use my thumb to point to the women modeling a braided updo. My stylist smiled and nodded at me and walked to the other side of the salon to retrieve all the supplies that she’ll need.
I would always look forward to these appointments at the Golden Comb. To my young teen self, Golden Comb was a place where I could be created into whoever I desired. After my appointments, I’ve been Uzo Aduba, when I dyed my hair black and got a blowout; Kimberly Elise, when I got a shiny twist out; Nicole Ari Parker when I got a silk press and curls. Enjoying this fame instilled in me a feeling of

This unfaltering sense of invincibility and confidence was not confined to my model walk and fierce poses, but it was entrenched in nearly every thought and action I had. I believed that the Golden Comb was my personal salon, the sleek salon chair was my director’s chair and the full size mirror was photographers. Ignorant to my rare flashes of clumsiness and how sensitive the stylists tool carts are, I onced tripped into one, while strutting down the length of the salon, knocking down all and breaking some of the stylist hair tools. With a bruised hip and a bruised ego, I learned a valuable lesson: invincibility is a pure mirage and being narcissistic never leads to anything