Review | Entertaining and hard-hitting, ‘’da Kink in My Hair’ still holds up 20 years later

’da Kink in My Hair

By Trey Anthony. Directed by Weyni Mengesha. Until Dec. 23 at the Bluma Appel Theatre, tolive.com, soulpepper.ca or 416-366-7723

It holds up. Oh, does it ever.

Trey Anthony’s play premiered at the Toronto Fringe in 2001 and has had many subsequent lives, from an extended engagement at the Princess of Wales Theatre in 2005 to a TV movie and TV series, to sold-out national and international stage productions. “’da Kink in my Hair” launched Anthony’s career as a playwright, broadcaster and wellness expert, which continues to flourish.

This 20th anniversary stage version is updated to the minute with topical references (Kanye West, anyone?) while maintaining the dramatic situation and structure that are key to its success. A group of Black women banter, sass and commune in a hair salon, coming downstage individually to tell personal stories in spotlighted monologues.

The direct address invites spectators into a shared experience of strong emotions — joy, pain, rage, delight — and the audience at the Saturday night performance I attended responded passionately and vocally, returning and expanding on the energy offered by the multi-talented cast.

As with the original production, Weyni Mengesha directs and her staging more than ably fills the vast Bluma Appel stage. Joanna Yu’s set creates distinct playing areas: cash desk and waiting area on either side, stylist’s chair raised at centre stage and an ample space downstage for the monologues.

A mural by Adrian Hayles beautifully evokes the Little Jamaica community for which this salon serves as a hub. Frequent musical numbers, with choreography by Jaz “Fairy J” Simone, and musical direction and composition by Corey Butler, further add to the production’s mighty entertainment value.

At the heart of it all is Novelette (Ordena Stephens-Thompson, who played the role in the TV series): it’s her salon and, when women sit in her chair, truths begin to flow.

Stephens-Thompson is marvellous in the role, tossing a wittily disapproving quip to the cheeky salon assistant Claudette (d’bi.young anitafrika) one minute, warmly comforting bereaved client Nia (Olunike Adeliyi) the next. Novelette stays onstage during the monologues, contributing to the impression that she is guiding the action as a sort of combined author, priestess and queen.

The significance and staying power of the play lies in the way in which Anthony’s characters speak truthfully to their experiences as Black women: challenges, heartbreaks and triumphs alike.

Primary place is given to a monologue about fatal gun violence against a young Black man, performed movingly by Tamara Brown. A following ritual in which the performers speak names of others who were murdered opens up a space of mourning but also anger and activism, as viewers are invited to contemplate how that list of names has grown appallingly longer in the 20 years since Anthony wrote the play.

Sexuality is another central theme and several of the monologues celebrate female desire — none more so than that of Miss Enid (Satori Shakoor), a senior figure with a hilariously sweaty story to tell about her next-door neighbour and a sweet potato pie.

Mengesha, costume designer Rachel Forbes, lighting designer Kimberly Purtell and sound designer Thomas Ryder Payne pull out all the stops for the Act I finale featuring Miss Enid: the use of salon appliances in the staging is inventive and very funny and, with the other performers, a mighty trio of vocalists (Alana Bridgewater, Tiffany Deriveau and Chelsea Russell) tear the house down in a song composed by e’Marcus Harper.

Miranda Edwards is appropriately brittle as the high-achiever Sherelle and Shakura Dickson marvellously charismatic as the local-girl-done-good-in-Hollywood Sharmaine (costumes and styling place Sharmaine in Kardashian territory). In these and the other monologues, Mengesha and the company do exceptional work in modulating tone and pace: just moments after things are loud, bawdy and musical, the actors bring the energy to riveting focus, captured in Purtell’s spotlights.

This is nowhere more effective than in anitifrika’s astonishing monologue as immigrant girl Stacey-Anne. The character’s narration of a troubled relationship with her stepfather takes the audience on a devastating emotional journey, communicated as much by what Stacey-Anne doesn’t say as what she does. The audience gasped, groaned and wept along with anitifrika’s story. A beautiful scene afterward in which anitifrika (who uses they/them pronouns) performs a dub poem they wrote themselves feels like a necessary ritual cleansing.

This and other portions of the show are harrowing, and the program includes content warnings and phone numbers for crisis hotlines.

“’da Kink” is more topical than usual holiday fare, but it’s part of Anthony’s signal achievement that the show is as entertaining as it is hard-hitting. In this and any other season, it’s earned its status as a Canadian classic.

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