For the last two years I’ve been unimaginably MOC (mit-out-cash). I’ve had a couple of jobs here and there but not nearly enough to actually throw money at the bills on the “other coffee table”. The one far away from where I’ve holed up on the daybed self medicating with television (among other things). I don’t even have to go to that part of the room. It’s like my dressing room- a no mans land of stepped out of pants and shirts that have to be smelled to determine if I have to stand next to the subway doors or can hold the bar to avoid blatant offense.
And my hair has suffered the consequences of my temporary poverty. But no more. I’m a Leo. I slam doors and won’t go outside if my hair is all fucked up. I can’t live like this. When I was a teenager, and door slamming was not part of my mother’s deal, she’d ask what my problem was and I’d say, earnestly, “have you seen my hair?" She’d then tell me to "just call Caroline,” “I can’t afford Caroline, I don’t have any money” (I’m sensing a theme here- but then I was only 15), to which the response was inevitably…“just call Caroline and get outta my face!" Caroline, my hairdresser from 12-21 was my savior. And she did Mavis Staples hair, so that tells you how laid my bouncy Oprah perm was. Then at 21 I cut it all off.
Well, I didn’t cut it off. A great big ole lesbian I found in the West Village came to my dorm room at Columbia and cut it off for me. She’d overheard me ask a girl with a dope assed TWA (Teeny Weeny Afro) on a payphone (payphones y’all) where she got her hair cut and the girl gave me her ass to kiss. After she’d brought her wife and kids to my room to make sure there was no funny business, she HOOKED MY HEAD THE FUCK UP. My mom was in Zimbabwe at the time and after the deed was done called saying that it’s my mane and I have to keep it. Whoops, too late. Maybe you shouldn’t have decided to run away to Africa for a year- ON MY 21ST BIRTHDAY!
Anyhoo, I do believe it’s my mane. But after several hairstyles- mohawk, which lead to a practically slick dome (which lead my Grandma Charity to ask if I was gay-good story), a gigantic multicolored Afro, twists, braids, and finally locks. I had a hairdresser I trusted implicitly to do whatever he wanted to my hairs. Garvin was an artist. An artist that went from $65 when we started to $165 by the time I quit him (and after he left me waiting for him for 4 HOURS when I was in grad school and every minute counted). I went to a different stylist to start my locks and only got them done by professionals two times after that (once by Garvin who charged me $150 to do what I’d been doing to myself for free- fuck you dude). I couldn’t afford it. I live in Brooklyn and they wanted $100 to step in the door. I don’t have health insurance anymore, but if there was hair insurance, I felt like I’d paid into my retirement hair plan. Social Security for my hair, because when it’s outta wack -I’m outta wack.
So with these here locks, my other locked friends keep telling me it’s never gonna not be fuzzy. I hate fuzzy. It drives me crazy. And then I get mad because I said that I’d cut them off if I lost 20 lbs before they hit my shoulders. They’re at my bra strap now and I look like I’m on steroid medication. And the hairs got more and more unruly. Thursday after depositing money that should go to to the bill people, I caught sight of myself in the glass. I looked CRAY CRAY. When did it become acceptable to me to look like this? My Grandmas must be rolling in their graves. I asked myself "Would you walk around Chicago or DC like this?” HELL TO THE NO!!! So why does Brooklyn get such blatant disrespect? Hasn’t Brooklyn earned the right to your beauty. Come on blood, give it to the people. I’d tried to go to a salon that had $45 lock special in the window the day before, but…black people… the girl who does locks wasn’t there. I made an appointment for the next Tuesday, then saw myself, then walked straight to the salon.
I say all that to say, I got my hairs did. And I feel like I can take over the world. I’m going to go into places I want to work and tell them I want to work there because I feel confident and sexy and my hair’s so pretty, who wouldn’t want me around so they can airstroke it (cause don’t go touchin’ my head) and dream about how great their lives would be if they had my hair. It’s like money in the bank. I’m even sleeping better. No tossing and turning cause that’ll rip my scarf off and mess up the whole thing. Today I’m going to the Auto Show and I’m sure I’m going to find a man who wants to take me to dinner so he can stare at my pretty hairs (and not the ones on my chin either…).
There’s no stopping me now.