Straight No Chaser

Kinky

when i go home for thanksgiving, my mother is going to take one look at me and proclaim that i haven't been taking care of my hair. she's right, but she's normally the only person who can tell, so i don't see where it's worth nagging about, really. i dump in the requisite chemicals at the appropriate times, i keep it clean and moisturized like she wants. but my ends need trimmed, like always, which peeves her more than i can really even understand. what the ass ever, though.

one time, like maybe tenth or eleventh grade, i kept my summer braids for the first couple months of the school year. what a fantasic semester that was, hair-wise. it was manageable, it grew--i repaired the braids one at a time, when they got messy or frayed. professor strange has long dreads that she keeps pulled back from her face, usually wrapped into a gigantic bun at the crown of her head. this is something they encourage, here, because all the chemicals and heat and straighteners keep our hair in eternal distress; "just like the african people," they say, "it only flourishes in its natural state." let it kink up, in other words, and it'll be down your back in no time. not that that's what we necessarily want.

we had an argument one time, marcus and i, about one of his poems, the shekinha poem; he tried to liken it to dave matthews band's song "crush," saying that both were universal to all women, inclusive of every situation, blah blah blah...i pointed out that one of his (marcus's) lines was about running his fingers through so-and-so's flowing hair, ha! half the people in his immediate surroundings don't even have flowing hair; they have anything from mild waves to forest-dense naps. there is nothing universal about physical worship that is so blatantly eurocentric. he was like, "[falter falter falter]...your hair flows." yes, i said, but i'm culturally stunted.

he likes to put his fingers in it. i don't like that much at all. i discourage it with headbands and ponytails. he is not one to be deterred.

writing about hair is more fun than writing about, say, transcendentalist literature. i've got the crazy jungle ponytail thing going, right now. tight, slicked down on top, big explosive curls bursting from the other side of the elastic. i don't want to go to work tomorrow, don't want to go to class. my sonnet consists of one really iffy line, and my bed looks wonderful.

i need cheering up.