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As on Every Saturday At 12 Shawntay makes her pilgrimage to Greg's Beautification Shop, which sits on the corner of Florida Avenue and 9th Street, bopping, writhing, and full of itself; three floors of plastic bag curls, wraps, weaves, French rolls-tight and 'bout right. The hours between noon and dusk are the difference between good gossip and "child, that's old news:' Still, it's not so bad: tonight, the tithe bearer's eyes will fall over her-but gently. Summoned, from the half eaten fish sandwich and empty soda cans by the new shampoo girl (whose butt is worse than unset Jell-O,) she is told to sit back and relax, gurL Washed and waiting she peeks at Renee whose ten inch nails snake around Gold-n-Hot curlers which spit and hiss and offer salvation. Dried and ready she is surrendered to The Chair where sitting still and Goddess-like is worthiness. Shawntay is. Assured 52 that if it burns enough, if the hiss is loud enough, the smell overwhelming enough, the Amen Corner will buzz, and the buzz will be the word and the word will sound like: "Oh. My. God. Gur1! That is soooo FLY!" And she'll be reminded: God is good. 53 ...

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