Morgan’s “war on bad hair” led to attempts to defeat “bad hair” through cost-cutting, do-it-yourself methods. A man named Malcolm Little relates his own experience:

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“my hair was finally long enough to be conked. He had promised to school me in how to beat the barbershops' three- and four-dollar price by making up Congolene [commercial name for a lye based hair straightener], and then conking ourselves.

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…went to a grocery store, where I got a can of Red Devil lye, two eggs, and two medium-sized white potatoes. Then at the drugstore near the poolroom, I asked for a large jar of Vaseline, a large bar of soap, a large-toothed comb and a fine-toothed comb, one of those rubber hoses with a metal sprayhead, a rubber apron and a pair of gloves.

 

"Going to lay on that first conk?" the drugstore man asked me. I proudly told him, grinning, "Right!"

 

Shorty…peeled the potatoes and thin-sliced them into a quart-sized Mason fruit jar, then started stirring them with a wooden spoon as he gradually poured in a little over half the can of lye. "Never use a metal spoon; the lye will turn it black," he told me.

 

A jelly-like, starchy-looking glop resulted from the lye and potatoes, and Shorty broke in the two eggs, stirring real fast--his own conk and dark face bent down close…."Feel the jar," Shorty said. I cupped my hands against the outside, and snatched it away. "Damn right, it's hot, that's the lye," he said. "So now you know it's going to burn when I comb it in--it burns bad. But the longer you can stand it, the straighter the hair."

 

.. from the big Vaseline jar, he took a handful and massaged it hard all through my hair and into the scalp. He also thickly vaselined my neck, ears and forehead…."You always got to remember that any Congolene left in burns a sore into your head."

 

Shorty starting combing it in. But then my head caught fire…I gritted my teeth and tried to pull the sides of the kitchen table together. The comb felt as if it was raking my skin off.

 

My eyes watered, my nose was running. I couldn't stand it any longer; I bolted to the washbasin. I was cursing Shorty with every name I could think of when he got the spray going and started soap-lathering my head.

 

He lathered and spray-rinsed, lathered and spray-rinsed, maybe ten or twelve times, each time gradually closing the hot-water faucet, until the rinse was cold, and that helped some.

 

"You feel any stinging spots?"

"No," I managed to say. My knees were trembling.

 

"Sit down, then. I think we got it all out okay."…"The first time's always worst. You get used to it better before long. You took it real good, homeboy. You got a good conk."

 

When Shorty let me stand up and see in the mirror, my hair hung down in limp, damp strings. My scalp still flamed, but not as badly; I could bear it. He draped the towel around my shoulders, over my rubber apron, and again began vaselining my hair.

 

I could feel him combing, straight back, first the big comb, then the fine-tooth one.

 

My first view in the mirror blotted out the hurting. I'd seen some pretty conks, but when it's the first time, on your own head, the transformation, after a lifetime of kinks, is staggering.

 

The mirror reflected Shorty behind me. We both were grinning and sweating. And on top of my head was this thick, smooth sheen of shining red hair--real red--as straight as any white man's.