"Can I touch it?"
He could barely get the question out before his hands went right into my hair. He wanted to touch it. He wanted to pet it. He wanted to put it into a ponytail with a dirty rubber band he found on the marble top of the bar.
"I could fall in love with this," he said as he scratched my roots. By the time I freed myself from his hair molestation my blow out was frizzy and wild. Not that he cared. I gave him the look. The John McEnroe "Are You SERIOUS?" look and he tried to cover his painfully obvious fetish.
"I just love that your hair is real. I don't care what a woman's hair is like as long as it's real."
Yet he wasn't attacking the sister rocking the TWA two stools down even though she was incredibly fierce in her own right. No. It was me and the ten pounds of clothes I had on in the summertime. I believe that everyone is entitled to love who they want to love, but I think people should be honest with themselves.
Black men have just as many hair issues about black women's hair as black women do.
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1 comment:
yes she is a clown for putting up with a loser, but i think the overrall message that not only black women have issues with hair but also black men is a perspective we haven't heard much since this fall's black hair talk
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