My hair, my way

Tropical Unisex Salon offers multicultural styling in an atmosphere as comfortable as home

By Megan Tench, Standard-Times correspondent

The sky leaks a single drop, and in me rises the angst that kinks up in the belly of black girls caught in the rain. Instinctively my feet lead my hair to the refuge of a Union Street awning. The roots of my existence tighten, as I gaze through the misty drizzle of a drab downtown Saturday.

Scanning the streets, my eyes fix on the Tropical Unisex Salon. It is here, at 282 Union St., that scores of clients of diverse ethnicity -- many with hair much like mine -- will stream all day.

I first walked into Tropical three years ago with my little brother. Overwhelmed by a creeping sense of familiarity, I watched as the 12-year-old gave confident instructions as to the exactness of his style; low-cut fade with distinct lines, off-center part to the left. In a crisp short-sleeved button-down, owner Jose DoSouto stood clean-cut like a cool breeze at the salon's forefront.

He still smiles the most welcoming smile I've ever seen.

Since I was a child, I've battled fiercely against the misery bad weather and contrary styling can bring to black hair.

My scalp is still tender from my mother's tugs and pulls. She tackled my thick, stubborn wool with a brush in one hand and a pick in the other, together creating an impenetrable crown of braids. The beads she strung at the ends hung like the jewels of Cleopatra. The kids at school called me Medusa.

I had everything from the infamous jheri curl to extensions, but I'll never forget the hot-comb's sizzle, burning my nappy head straight. As Mom wielded the steel comb, heated from the gas stove's flame, I winced and prayed at every stroke.

It was then I surrendered myself to the chemical cruelty of the perm relaxer. When applied correctly it stripped my hair of its natural oils, replacing them with manufactured sheen -- leaving me with a bone straight, shiny helmet.

But even this was better than sitting in a stylist's chair, witnessing the confusion in her eyes and then the determined set of her mouth as she manipulated my Afro madness into a style fit for a poodle.

At first I thought it was me. At first I thought I had problem hair. But experience, along with years of tragic hair-don'ts, made me realize that white folks cannot do black hair, at least not around here.

I remember visiting my grandparents in Maryland every summer. The main attraction was not the Smithsonian Institute or even the White House, but rather the once-a-year opportunity to be groomed by black women who told me my hair was beautiful.

It wasn't until college that I made my first self-inflicted statement. With a pair of scissors I shed the nuisance of chemical relaxers, burning irons and Euro-American standards of pin straight glamour for the beauty that is naturally locked into black hair. I became a soldier against societal values advertised in women's magazines, paraded on television screens and modeled in music videos.

Not only did I dive back into the black power movement of the '60s, eventually I allowed my natural, I-am-Black-and-I-am-Proud 'fro to grow into the soft twists of West Indian pride. No longer shackled to the confines of pop culture, I am free to co-exist with bad weather, yet my belly still aches at the first sight of rain.

The Tropical Unisex Salon is a popular gathering place, a destination as inviting as home but as vibrant as a nightclub. It is a unisex salon, but more men than women make their way here. It is a family-oriented establishment, serving kids, their teen-age siblings, those teens' cousins, aunts, uncles and so on. Haircuts range from $5 to $35 and the salon is open Tuesday through Saturday. On Fridays and Saturdays, a constant stream of patrons comes and goes.

On this particular Saturday, the island rhythm of a Creole beat is background music to the buzzing of clippers, the grating of shears and the moan of the hairdryer. The air is perfumed with the mangoed fragrance of sweet shampoos and the intoxicating aroma of aloe-spiced shaving creams.

Six stylists, bending over their clients, carry on in three different languages as splices of hair slowly drift to the black and white checkered floor. Spanish, English and Creole voices engage in the groove, creating a vibe as flavorful as a family barbecue on a sunny afternoon.

Tyne Silva smirks as she snips and pokes fun at Jose's client. For the past five years, this barber-stylist has been challenging her customers with friendly verbal combat, as if she were everyone's favorite aunt.

The first time we met, without any formal introduction, she knew my name and spoke it like we'd known each other for years. And we probably have. Considering the familial tradition of the community hair salon, coupled with New Bedford's cultural uniqueness, our families probably lived in the same neighborhood somewhere at some time, and perhaps I was just too small to remember.

Scrutinizing his handiwork with clippers in hand, young Waldir Correira explains how hair is the sixth element of hip-hop, a statement through style, a piece of a social commentary in the latest, most popular black arts movement.

"See, this is my art," he says. "In hip-hop you have rap, break-dancing, the DJ, graffiti, clothes and now hair."

Waldir, like the other barber-stylists at Tropical, began mastering his art at a young age, in his own back yard. JD (who doesn't offer a last name) was 13 when family members first placed the clippers in his hands.

At this moment on this particular Saturday, he is lathering thick white goo on client Darren Gonsalves' hairline. "Boy, I was so happy to come here," says Mr. Gonsalves. "Good place, good people, good atmosphere."

JD jokingly responds, "Yeah, it's the only place he hears good Cape Verdean music."

Peering from an oversized purple smock is the round, beaming face of 3-year-old Jaylen Fernandes, who has been going to Tropical all his young life, not just for the cut, but also for the candy he gets when he behaves.

Tyne Silva warmly exercises careful precision as Jaylen giggles, "I like getting my haircut," and with pointed finger his mom warns, "Sit still!"

Jose DoSouto, who is now in his late 30s, was 14 years old and living in Cape Verde when he began his craft. Emigrating to Boston in 1985, he continued to cut hair, noticing the many folks who traveled long distances just to receive a suitable haircut. Not wanting to compete with his friends and family members in Boston, Jose moved to New Bedford and opened his unisex salon in 1994.

Beginning with only two stylists, Mr. DoSouto and a former business partner built Tropical into a very popular establishment. His business has become so successful that in five years' time not only did he move from one side of Union Street to a bigger place directly across the street, but his vision has expanded beyond his expectations. Today, Mr. DoSouto has a staff of eight and streams of thankful customers.

"I'm doing what I love to do," he says. "I like the area, and I like my customers. They are the most important thing."

All around him, barbers snip and clients patiently await their turn to receive a smoother, sharper image of themselves. At the Tropical Unisex Salon, a haircut is not simply the latest or coolest look, but a reflection of culture, embedded in the comforts of similar understanding and the imprint of home.

I take my seat and, in the mirror, catch the smile on a small, almond-eyed face. The child is pleased with his look. I smile back. Finally, a place that reminds little black children they are beautiful.

Staff photos by Mike Valeri
1) Owner Jose DoSouto employs a straight razor to get a close shave and 2) lathers another customer for a crisp hairline. 3) JD, a stylist at theTropical Unisex Salon in downtown New Bedford, gives 11-year-old Robby Mendes Jr. a haircut. 4 & 5) Jose DoSouto uses clippers on the beard of Fabian Medeiros at the Tropical Unisex Salon on Union Street in New Bedford.