Cornrows: Style & SubstanceBy Sharifa Rhodes-Pittshttp://www.africana.comAlmost any woman walking on 125th Street in Harlem will find herself in the midst of a strange courting ritual. It is not the cat-calls, “hey-babys,” and “can-I-walk-with-yous” that the corridor is famous for. It is instead this partly grating, partly soothing whisper of “hair braiding miss?” that echoes from West to East, up and down the north-south boulevards that cut across the meridian. The solicitors form clusters in front of bus stops and subway exits, ready to pounce on unsuspecting visitors. They are often impressive models of their own designs.
The salons themselves are mostly dingy, functional hair braiding factories marked by painfully literal signs, inevitable variations on a constant theme: African Braiding Salon or African Braiding Station. For distinction, they are preceded by modifiers such as Professiona, or Harlem or Mali, Senegal, Happy. In a few of the storefronts, large groups of women sit behind the plate-glass windows. They talk amongst themselves gaily, interrupting their chatter at the sight of passersby, they tap on the windows, hoping to entice, just like the prostitutes in the red light district of Amsterdam. If you pass the salons late at night, you’ll see the last customer receiving her crowning glory under the harsh fluorescent lights; the floor covered with strands of Korean-made YAKY synthetic hair; the detritus of a successful day in the African hair braiding industry.
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