The Cosmetologist: The Teenage Years of a Beautician

By George Solomon

You as a reader will find THE COSMETOLOGIST both interesting and amusing. George Solomon is a retired, licensed cosmetologist. This book explores some of the experiences of the author. His talents as a hairdresser, as well as his ups and downs during his time away from the salon. Will he ever return to the scissors and the comb? We'll find out in BOOK TWO.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098375515

Book preview

cover.jpg

Copyright © 2021 by George Solomon

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photo-copying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval systems, without permission

in writing from the copyright owner. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,

places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination

or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead,

events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 07/16/2016

Print ISBN: 978-1-09837-550-8

ebook ISBN: 978-1-09837-551-5

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

BOOK ONE

CHAPTER ONE

I was born on August 18, 1950. I was raised on the east side of Detroit, Michigan. My mother Tiffany Louis, married my father Frank Holloway at the age of eighteen. She said that it was in an effort to move out of her parent’s house. My parents were married twelve years before I was born. Ten years later my sister Janice arrived. We lived in the most poverty stricken neighborhood in the city.

The area was called ‘Black Bottom’. When violent incidents broke out in my neighborhood which was daily, the police were notified. But if a patrol unit wasn’t assured that it would receive immediate back up, then it wasn’t required to respond to the call.

If a kid living in ‘Black Bottom’ made it to the age of twenty-one, he or she had a pretty good shot at living a full life. Unfortunately, a staggering number of youths died before reaching the age of eighteen.

And the chief cause of death of the vast majority of them were gunshot wounds. For those who didn’t have a high school diploma and were willing to work, usually found employment at one of ‘The Big Three’. (General Motors, Ford Motor Company, or Chrysler Corporation.) During the 1940’s and 50’s, Detroit was considered the automobile capital of the world.

Detroit’s population during that period was close to two million people. And despite discrimination, factory workers, both white and people of color, for the most part, could pick and choose where they wanted to live. But because of discrimination, more than a few black factory workers chose to remain living in the slums.

As was the case with our family. My father worked in the auto industry.

But his car of choice was a Cadillac. My mother was a stay at home housewife. And although pop’s was up on the happenings, he was also a God fearing man. We attended church services every Sunday. Both my father and mother were deacons.

I wasn’t allowed to go to the movies or to parties. Pop’s was also, a real snazzy dresser. He was very fashion conscious. But also very conservative. He dressed more like a banker or a lawyer. He shopped on Washington Boulevard at stores like J.M Citron Co., Scholnicks Clothiers, wore Stetson shoes, and hats from Henry the Hatter.

He also saw that my mother and us kids were well dressed. My mother was very light complexioned with long curly hair. I inherited her curly hair. And although my hair is naturally wavy, I enjoyed greasing it down with either, Royal Crown hair dressing, Murray’s or NuNile pomade.

Then after thoroughly combing and brushing it, I would wear a stocking cap to bed at night. The next morning, I would remove the stocking cap and those waves would be leaping as it were. But I start noticing cats who wore their hair conked.

They talked really hip and were very smooth with the girls. One day, a fourteen year old precocious neighbor of mine named Maurice came by my house with his hair fried, dyed and laid to the side. He was conked to the bone. I was thirteen at the time. He was dark skinned with the most silkiest, natural, waviest hair that I had ever seen.

And whatever possessed him to get it straightened with lye, is still a mystery to me. However, after seeing his new do, I had to admit, it did look very slick. He told me that Barry, our neighbor, who lived on the end our block, next to the railroad tracks, had straightened, and styled his hair for free. Maurice just furnished the conk.

So I decided to get mine laid too. During that time, I had a newspaper route which afforded me some extra spending money. And since I was already paying Bobby to trim my hair every two weeks, I decided to take it to the next level. So that following friday, I stopped by the drugs store, purchased the needed supplies, and headed over to Barry’s crib. In addition to getting my hair relaxed, I asked Barry to pierce my left ear to make me look even cooler.

Barry was an aspiring barber who had set up shop in his parent’s basement. In fact, he made more money in his parent’s basement than a lot of licensed barbers who were working in barber shops. Barbering was in his DNA. When he enrolled in barber college, he already had an impressive clientele. And by the time he graduated, he had enough cash to purchase his own barber shop outright.

It wasn’t long before his shop started receiving the same recognition as some of Detroits most upscaled barber shops like Shaws, Wave-O-Rama, and Style-O-Rama. I said to myself, One day I’m going to be a barber. When I came home and showed my parents my new do, I said to them, I’m gonna to be a barber.

They just looked at one another. Then pops said, You can be whatever you want to be. Just as long as you finish high school first. I quickly learned how to finger wave my own hair. I remember the first day at junior high School. Most of the students came dressed to impress. I wore a pair of brown silk and wool slacks, a pair of brown Ben B. Burkes gators, a brown Leonardo Strassi Italian knit shirt, and an artificial ruby stick pin in my left ear. And of course my hair was laid to the max.

Talk about a youngster being full of himself, that was one of the most memorable days of my life.

After school, whenever Barry had the time, he’d show me some of his hairstyling techniques. He taught me how to do three to the side finger waves, Cesar’s, and New York straight back waves. His clientele consisted mostly of young potential pimps, players, and regular blue collar workers. While in junior high school, I took an evening driver’s ed course at Pershing High School. After receiving my learner’s permit, I eventually passed the road test and acquired my Michigan State driver’s license. Eventually, I quit my newspaper route. I fixed up my parents basement, and started barbering. It didn’t take long for me to start building a nice clientele. It got to the point that all I wanted to do was barber.

However, unlike Barry, most of my customers were members of a notorious street gang called the Bishops. I began cutting classes. Eventually, I stopped going to school altogether. One morning before my father left for work, he said to me, Here’s two hundred dollars. Since you don’t want to go to school, I want you out of my house by the time I get home from work. Then he walked out and slammed the door.

So my mother called my grandfather on her side of the family and asked if I could go stay with him. He agreed under the condition that I promise to go back to school. So I agreed. He owned a house directly across the street from the junior high school that I attended. My grandmother had passed away when I was about six or seven.

Grandaddy had just retired from the Silvercup Bread bakery located on E. Jefferson Street. Not too far from Bell Isle. Two of my uncles and their common law wives also lived with my grandfather. My Uncle Vernon A.K.A. ‘Boogie Woogie Red’, was a blues, jazz pianist, singer and songwriter.

He had worked with such musicians as Sonny Boy Williamson I, Memphis Slim, and Tampa Red. He also, was John Lee Hooker’s pianist for twelve years. My other Uncle Drayco, was a sign painter. He painted signs for the local small businesses in the neighborhood.

Both of my uncles were also alcoholics. ‘Boogie’ had a fairly steady gig at a club called the ‘Blind Pig’. I lived in the basement. My grandaddy had the basement renovated into a studio apartment. There was a side entrance that led to the basement. ‘Boogie’, his old lady and my grandfather’s bedrooms were located on the first floor. Drayco and his woman lived in the attic.

Needless to say, people were constantly dropping by the house. And when it came to young women, my grandfather was one of the biggest tricks in the neighborhood. ‘Boogie’s woman Jessie, worked as a waitress at Ester’s Soul Food Restaurant located on Chene St. near Gratiot Ave. ‘Drayco’s woman Ruby, was a no hustling tramp.

Who just ran the streets every day and showed up every night, tore up from the floor up, and broke. I set up shop in my grandaddy’s basement and continued doing hair. Occasionally, I hung out with the Bishops. When it came to facing off against rival gangs, ‘Rico’, who was the gang’s leader, ‘Big Joe’ and several other gang members who were skilled in marshall arts, threw the first blows. We feared no one. The Bishops ruled. And although we were few in numbers, our reputation was known citywide.

Whenever possible, I tried avoid getting caught up in the violence. Mainly because I was only 5ʹ 3" and the smallest member of the gang.

I was both respected an hated by fellow gang members. Back then we mostly fought with our fists. A few members carried knives. But rarely ever had to use them. Once, I remember getting into an argument in school with a dude named ‘Bruce’.

His older brother was serving a life sentence in Marquette State Prison for a double homicide conviction. Our dispute later escalated into to a fist fight. Now usually, I’d be able to bluff my way out of a fight. Or at least reason with an opponent who was bigger than me. But Bruce was determined to go to blows with me. Why? I haven’t the vaguest idea.

But I noticed during that previous week, whenever I spoke to him, he would just give me a dirty look and keep on walking. So I decided to buy a switchblade knife just in case something jumped off. That following week happened to be the last week before the summer vacation began. On the last day after classes were dismissed, I was exiting the building when suddenly Bruce jumped in front of me and sucker punched me in the eye. I immediately retaliated by slashing him in his abdomen with my switchblade. And although his injury wasn’t life threatening, everybody was stunned at the fact that I had cut Bruce with a knife. But no one considered the fact that Bruce was much bigger and outweighed me.

Not to mention the fact that he attacked me first. But because I used a knife to defend myself, I was made to look like the bad guy. While a couple of students helped Bruce to the nurse’s office, I slipped my knife to a fellow gang member named J.P. Then I headed across the street to my grandaddy’s house. I stood on the front porch and waited for the cops to arrive. Finally, an ambulance showed up. A few seconds later, the cops arrived.

A couple of students said something to the cops, then pointed at me. The cops came over and questioned me.I explained to them that Bruce had attacked me. And that I simply defended myself. Then one of the officers asked me for the weapon. I told him that I dropped it right after I cut Bruce. I was then handcuffed and put into a squad car. Bruce was taken to the hospital. It was as if I had committed murder. My grandfather, my uncles, the neighbors, school teachers, and students were all talking and starring as the cops took me away.

I was taken to the juvenile detention facility located on E. Forest St. and Rivard. They charged me with felonious assault with a deadly weapon. I pleaded self defense. They locked me up on unit 6N. 6N housed fifteen and sixteen year old juvenile delinquents. While I was there, One of the members of the Bishops named Blue got popped for Grand Theft Auto and was sent up to my unit. He said to me, Man! The word on the street is that you tried to kill Bruce.

That you stabbed him three or four times before they pulled you up off of him. Of course this was all B.S. But it made those who were within earshot of his words, think that I was one hell of a dude.I was just defending myself, was my response. Blue said, I know I’m going to get committed to B.T.S. (Boys Training School) because I’m still on probation. Eventually, we both were sentenced to two years at B.T. S. By that time, I had earned the reputation of ‘being little in size, but big otherwise.’ There were juvenile delinquents from all parts of Detroit at the training school. Eastside, Westside, North End, you name it.

The cats from the Westside boasted about the happenings in their neighborhoods. Especially those who lived in the Finkell and Livernois area.

Which at that time, happened to be a pretty upscale neighborhood. Highland Park was another popular area. Simply put, the Westside, during that time, seemed to have more status than other parts of Detroit. At least, where people of color were concerned. The 20 Grand, The Fox Theatre, The Paladium, The Arcadia Roller Rink, and The Gray Stone Ballroom, were all Westside venues.

And I had partied more than a few times at all of those spots. In fact, during the 1960’s, you could catch the whole Motown Review at the Fox Theater for $1.25. After six months, I was granted a weekend home visit. It started on Friday July 21st and ended on Monday July 24, 1967. On Sunday, July 23, 1967, pops let me borrow his Cadillac. And as I was driving over to my girl Judy’s pad, I happened to notice people snatching stuff out the window of a pawn shop in broad day light.

So I pulled over, parked, and continued to watch. When suddenly, two ex-cons, out on parole, named Tito and Lucky, rolled up in a pick up truck and parked in front of me. they were construction workers. They approached me and said,’Buck. My man. I see you’re wheeling a Brougham now, Said Tito. Gotta keep rolling, I answered. Check this out ‘Buck’! Man their raising all kinds of hell over on the Westside on Twelfth Street. How’d you like to hit a couple of licks with us and make some fast cash? Tito continued.

Let’s do it," I answered. I left the car parked, called Judy to say that I’d be a little late, then I hopped into the pick up. We then headed for our first job. After about ten hours of work, we called it quits. We split the cash three ways and Lucky gave me a lift back to my ride. I got home a little after midnight. I took a shower, and went straight to bed.

I made it back to the training school just in time. Earlier that previous Sunday morning, there had been a raid on an after hours spot over on the Westside onTwelfth Street and Clairmont Avenue. The only way to describe the situation was Sheer mayhem. It all stemmed from a celebration of the return of two black G.Is from the Viet -nam War. A confrontation between the police, patrons and witnesses on the street escalated into one of deadliest riots in the history of the United States. For almost a week, people robbed, burned, and looted businesses. It had gotten so out of control that people were being arrested and detained on busses. The County Jail was overcrowded.

They had to call in the Michigan State Police, The Wayne County Sheriff’s Department, National Guardsmen, and paratroopers from the 82nd Airborne. Finally on that Sunday July 29, the chaos finally ceased. After serving eighteen months, I was released and placed on six months probation. I had just turned eighteen. It sure felt great to be back on the streets again. I still had the two hundred bucks that pop’s had given me. Plus a couple of stacks that I received for the work that I had put in with Lucky and Tito. Moms was there to pick me up. On the way, she started with her usual lecture.

That if I didn’t change my ways, I was going to end up in the penitentiary or dead. And once again I swore on a stack of Bibles that I would try to stay out of trouble. It was mid September and the weather was still nice. And although I had graduated from junior high school, I decided not to continue on to high school. As soon as I reached home, I showered, changed clothes and headed over to Rico’s crib. That’s where a few of the Bishops hung out.

They greeted me with a bottle of Wild Irish Rose wine and some Columbian Gold weed. I noticed a nerdy, former classmate of mine named Larry staring at me.

Since he wasn’t a gang member I walked over to him and said, What’s happening Larry? He nodded, motioned me over to the side and handed me snub nose 38 caliber pistol and said, Welcome home. I’m working at a big liquor outlet and I have access to the cash register.

I said, Hey! Thanks for the roscoe man. But as far as cash is concerned, I’m okay for now. Besides, I’m still on probation. I answered. Everyone knew that he was a square and that he just wanted to be seen hanging