BEING THERE:Beginning a major new series reporting on life in modern Ireland, Róisín Inglespends some time in Lady B's hair salon, which acts as a bridge between the old country and the new for Dublin's African community

A lady called Loveness sits in Lady B's salon on Marlborough Street in Dublin city centre, about to make an important decision. She could go for straight and long, a la Tyra, or look to Oprah's glossy, curly hairdo for inspiration. Pop princess and successful umbrella saleswoman Rihanna has been rocking a sleek, short Victoria Beckham style lately, so that's another option to consider. Packets of hair, some "100 per cent human", some synthetic, line the walls in an impressive variety of styles, colours and textures. Loveness sighs as she contemplates every possible shade of brown.

It will be a long, tedious process but in a few hours, Loveness will have a new head of smooth hair covering her own afro-textured natural locks and she won't be able to stop admiring herself in the mirror.

"The main thing is I want it to look natural," says the highly qualified unemployed woman from Zimbabwe as she discusses her planned "do" with hair stylist Jennifer.

Hip hop blasts from speakers as the mostly African customers queue up for shaves and haircuts and styles. They eat, dance, exchange gossip, and sometimes they do all of this at the same time. It's one part community centre, one part chemist and one part hairdresser, a place that moves to a cultural beat a million miles away from traditional Irish salons. For starters, everyone seems to be shouting, which probably wouldn't go down well with the blue-rinse brigade. And eating a plate of rice and beans in your local unisex might also offend.

Not here though, because with hairstyles that take anywhere from two to six hours, take-aways are condoned. The salon also sells things you probably won't find in Peter Marks. Inside a glass case, random medical and domestic items are displayed. Cough medicine.Paracetamol. Throat lozenges. Calpol. Sudocreme.

But back to the hair. "At the end, you won't be able to tell I am wearing a weave," says Loveness. A weave? Jennifer, who is from Nigeria, patiently explains how natural afro hair can be unmanageable and says this is why many African women choose to have layers of hair extensions sewn onto their own natural manes.

"Most Irish people don't know it's there. They will just say, oh, your hair looks lovely. Another African person will know it's a weave straight away. We can fool you very well but we can't fool ourselves, unfortunately," says Loveness.

SHE HAS, HOWEVER, other more pressing issues to think about. Armed with her Masters in investments from Birmingham University, Loveness has been looking for a job since she moved to Dublin six months ago. It's been a frustrating hunt, not helped by the suspicion that her ethnicity is slowing down the process. "You can definitely tell in interviews and with the job agencies that, even though I am highly qualified, they are sceptical about whether an African woman can actually do the job," she says. "One woman in an agency, when she realised I was black, asked was my husband black or white. I asked her why, what that had to do with anything. I think she did it innocently, she wasn't being racist, but it was weird."

Loveness is registered with four employment agencies and the search for a job takes up most of her time. She wants to work in fund accounting, financial analysis, corporate finance or credit risk analysis. She'd quite like a job in the IFSC.

"There's lots of jobs out there, but I can't get one," she says. Is it really because she's black? "Well, look, I think the Irish people are very nice and welcoming, but at the moment they don't make enough effort getting to know us, they don't have confidence in us, and a community that doesn't have confidence in its minorities is wasting valuable skills, talents and resources. I wouldn't call it racism, it's more like ignorance," she says.

As she talks, Jennifer plaits her hair into cornrows, flat and tight against the scalp. The packets of "100 per cent human hair", much of which is sourced in China, are then sewn on to the plaits with a sturdy needle and brown thread. Loveness holds the pieces of hair in her hand and Jennifer takes the layers from her as she needs them. In a successful weave, you shouldn't notice the stitches. If done badly - there's nothing worse than a bad weave say the experts - the hair will sit bumpily on the head.

Loveness tells us about a little experiment, unrelated to haircare, which she has been conducting lately. She sent two versions of her CV to some Dublin-based employment agencies. Her real name was on one and a made-up English sounding name on the other.

"I just wanted to see what would happen," she explains. What happened was there was a better response to the CVs which bore the English-sounding name. "They rang to say they thought I was very highly qualified, but at the end of the day when they picked up my accent, it went back to the same thing, almost questioning whether I could do the job," she says.

Maybe she needs to change her accent as well as her name? Loveness smiles joylessly and says she might use her little experiment as material in a research doctorate on the inequities faced by black people who are looking for jobs.

While Jennifer works away, Loveness goes back to a survey on her lap, ticking boxes down the page with a pen. A final-year psychology student at the Dublin Business School has left questionnaires at the salon, and, as clients sit getting their hair done, sometimes for hours, they ponder the questions posed. Are they denied the rights they deserve? Do they feel low because of their cultural background? Do they feel discriminated against? Do they miss food from home?

A young Nigerian man called Fabu-D makes a colourful impression when he walks in with friends. Loud and provocative, the student is a stand up comedian in his spare time, a self-styled 'King of Joke" according to his Bebo page. He finds out that Loveness is from Zimbabwe and tells the room it's "the posh part of Africa". His friends laugh as he goes through the questions on the survey. "You know what food I really miss? A nice bit of dog meat!" he says. The other Nigerians present are appalled and call him a "crazy fool" but can't help laughing. He's constantly moving and his mouth never stops, whether he's chewing on his egg roll or talking about discrimination.

On this subject his friend Femi, a mechanical engineering student, says he believes that Irish people are "just not that used to black people yet, they still find us strange". When in certain shops, he gets the impression that he is being watched, as though the staff think he won't be able to afford anything. "Or, maybe they think I am going to steal," he says. How does their suspicion make him feel? "I just laugh. These challenges make me stronger, make me want to improve. I just focus on the fact that one of these days, I am going to make it." He says his Irish friends in college - "great people, crazy guys" - don't care what colour he is.

Aki, a young performing-arts student waiting in the salon for his friend, tries to describe the appeal of African salons. "They are very sociable places, a black salon is much more communicative than an Irish salon, I think. We talk more to each other, whether we are friends and strangers," he says as the music, African reggae now, is turned up to 11. They talk more and they talk louder. Tina Akinola, former hairstylist, now fund manager and organiser of the annual Most Beautiful African Girl in Ireland contest, says it's important for Irish people to understand this cultural difference.

"African people talk louder because our countries are very noisy places, you have to shout above the noise to get yourself heard, that's how we are," she says. "I know some Irish people find it strange and think it's aggressive, but it's just our way of speaking".

LADY B'S IS this kind of place: A man comes in and sits down with male stylist Mohammad, the barber and specialist in blinging male hairdos. The man says he wants to be "hooked up" with a haircut and Mohammed asks his client how he's been. In a soft voice, the man replies: "I'm good. I went to sleep last night and I woke this morning alive. Not everybody gets to say that." Mohammed nods, concentrating on making delicate, almost imperceptible adjustments to the man's hair.

It's also this kind of place: Amanda from Nigeria is studying business and law. She comes in and tells Jennifer she wants "a fixing".

She's kept her hair natural for a while but wants a weave now "because it's cold and the weave keeps your head warm". Amanda got her first weave at 15, for her school prom back home. "It was straight, brown and long, it was very exciting because when you are a young girl, you are not allowed get weaves, you had to just wear cornrows in our school. So a weave meant you were growing up," she says.

Filling out the survey, she remarks that sometimes Irish people think black people can't speak English. "It's very annoying" she says. She lives with two Irish girls and they love the way she will suddenly appear with a totally different look. "They think it's very cool," she says.

Freshly sprung from the double prison of professional hair dryer and heated rollers, Loveness has a question. "Do you think we need to cut more off?" she asks Jennifer, checking out her short, smart brown weave in the mirror, at which point practically everyone in the salon offers an opinion. "No, it's very sexy," is the verdict. Loveness sashays out of the salon a new, if still unemployed, woman. In an ideal world, the brand new hair and her excellent qualifications would land her a job at her next interview. She's not holding her breath.

Virtually unrecognisable now, with curly hair spilling down her shoulders, Jennifer asks Amanda if she has a boyfriend. Amanda says no and Jennifer says admiringly: "so you look this nice all the time just for yourself?" Amanda giggles before going off with two girls from the salon to a Christian event where you can pray for "deliverance". She walks out, new hair bouncing, while an older woman sits waiting for her daughter and ranting about evangelists.

NIGERIAN WOMAN Bridget, a singer, actress, business woman and hair stylist, is the woman who puts the B in Lady B's. Her father was working with an Irishman when she was born and he gave her the name. She says Irish people found it hard to believe when she first arrived. One day she is in London, the next Paris or New York, sourcing products from brands such as "Dark and Lovely" to sell in her salon.

"I want to be able to provide customers with everything they need for hair and beauty," she says. She reckons the majority of African women, especially Nigerian women, in Ireland wear weaves, which is why there are now around 15 such salons in Dublin and more dotted around the country.

"We can do curly, straight or braided, all different colours, so many different looks, and African women want to continually change their look," she says. "You want your man to see you in different styles, so you look like a different woman every once in a while. It helps you keep your man." She is laughing when she says this, but not necessarily joking.

She has been in Dublin for eight years and says that when she first came, African people had to go to London to get weaves and dreadlocks and braiding. "Now they can get everything done here, and we have lots of Irish customers too," she says. Jennifer keeps a book of photos showing her Irish customers braided, weaved and dreadlocked. "They love what we can do with their hair in the salon," she says.

It's late on a Thursday evening and the queue at Lady B is dwindling. After spending the day on their feet braiding, weaving, brushing and shaving, it's nearly home time.

AFRICAN SALONS don't tend to get busy until after noon, and at lunchtime the next day, Jennifer tells a packed salon about something that happened after closing time the night before.

"I had forgotten to lock the door even though we were finished for the day, these three Dublin guys opened it and shouted 'you f**king black monkey' at me then and then turned out the lights and went away," she says. The customers in the salon burst out laughing and ask Jennifer to repeat the story. She obliges, adding another part where she shouts at them angrily "you should be in bed by now". When she retells the story they crack up again.

What's so funny? "Well you have to laugh," explains Floss, a musician, who has come in to get twists put in his hair for a concert. This procedure, where tiny pieces of his very short hair are twisted into bumps on his head, takes four hours. "This thing has happened, it's over, in the past, there's nothing to do about it now, just laugh," he explains. So they do, clients and customers together, loudly and with feeling. " A community that doesn't have confidence in its minorities is wasting skills