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Over the years, I have written about or mentioned my grandmother Hattie Leach in my stories. Writing about her is easy.

Even if Mama Hattie wasn’t my grandmother, and I knew of her, I think I would be compelled to find out more about this fine Christian lady who always put things in the hands of God. Even after outliving three of her four kids, she simply said that God had a reason, and it wasn’t for her to question. Mama died in 1987 but memories of her still reside within the hearts of those who knew her.

Every time my mother and sister move a box or open another large brown envelope that once belonged to Mama, they find another treasure.

Treasures that help me better understand something about my family and community. All of this, compliments of Mama Hattie, my angel from above.

Several years ago, I wrote a story about Mama and Mu’s (my mother) beauty parlor as I remembered it as a kid.

My grandmother opened her first beauty shop on the lower level of the Kilby Hotel in the 1930s. Later, she moved to a small shop, about 12-by-12 feet, which she had built on the back side of their home at 205 Underhill Ave.

As a child growing up, I spent many hours in and out of that beauty parlor and even got my hair trimmed there for many years. When I look back, I realize the parlor was more like a social gathering place for black women.

Other than closing my eyes and remembering the way the beauty parlor looked years ago, I never dreamed that I would ever again gaze upon what it actually looked like in the ’40s, ’50s and ’60s.

While looking through a package my sister recently brought by, I found a tiny 3½ -by-3½ Kodak moment that brought tears to my eyes. In the picture are my gray-haired granny and her customer Dot Blair, taken in the beauty parlor on Underhill. What a jewel!

This picture provides us a trip back in time when black women got their hair washed, pressed with a hot comb and curled with curling irons.

Some of the older women with heads full of gray strands sometimes got what they called a blue rinse back then. If those gray strands could talk today, I am sure they would tell a story of love, hardships and survival. Unfortunately, the loss of so many of those gray strands over the years has left big gaps and missing links in our local black history.

Mama and Mu’s beauty parlor consisted of two work stations, four windows, two doors, one wash station, one hair dryer, several cane-bottom wooden chairs and a wooden coat rack. On one side of the room was a sterile case where they kept their cosmetology tools, and on top of it set an old black-and-white TV so they could watch the soap operas.

Phones were hard to come by in those days, so Mama had a little door cut in the wall, which allowed the house phone to be passed through from the house to the shop.

The shop was heated with an old kerosene heater in the winter and cooled by opening windows or doors when it was hot.

Can you imagine how hot it got in the parlor during the summer months with two gas-fired heaters to heat the pressing combs and curling irons, and an electric dryer running? It was extremely hot! Guess this is why they started late and finished late on certain days.

After Mu left the shop and went to work for Drexel Heritage, Mama continued to work in that beauty parlor up until she was unable to stand for long periods of time. For many years after my grandfather Mayfield suffered a stroke, she was the bread winner — and a good one at that.

Mama had a loyal following that loved sitting in her chair for hours watching and talking about their favorite soap operas.

Now, if you were lucky enough to be there at lunchtime, Mama would treat you to one of her specialty dishes such as rice with chicken butts, backs, hearts, and chicken feet … all at no extra charge.

Mama Hattie was one of the original founders of the Beauticians Club, and that was another one of her passions. Once again, thanks to Mama, you can gaze upon some of the trail-blazers in the area of black cosmetology in High Point.

Like many other black organizations back then, the Beauticians Club was very active in the community, and their fundraisers helped pay for many needed projects within the black community.

Right now someone is reading this story and saying, “I don’t get it.”
People who feel this way will forever stumble through life never understanding the importance of linking today with yesteryears.

When you learn smaller pieces of history like this, then you will better understand that you are part of a vast history tree that incorporates all races.

Thanks again, Mama, for so many memories. I miss you so much!

Glad folks can’t see the tears rolling down my face right now.

Glenn Chavis researches and writes about High Point’s black history. Contact him at Storytime40@aol.com