In a moment of weakness...

I made a bad decision.

I’ve been sittin’ here, trying to find a funny cute way to say it, but f$%! it!

I texturized my hair the other day.
I texturized my hair the other day.

I know, you’re probably thinking “so what”, right? But if you know me, you might know that I’ve had natural hair since I was about seventeen years old. I live and breath natural hair. Really, it’s a part of who I am.

I didn’t grow up doing my hair. Until I was twelve, except for the occasional summertime cornrow reprieve, I wore my hair in two long braids that went straight back. And they weren’t French braids, no no, cause my mom never learned how to do that. Really it was three braids in each one, connected together. And on special days, we put in those puffy cotton ribbons, in whatever color matched our outfits. Not exactly the height of fashion, but that’s all I knew, and I was content.

From there everything went downhill. I moved in with my black uncle and white aunt, who had no idea who what do with my nappy ass hair. The logical solution? A trip to the hair salon, and my first perm. I shook it, I brushed it, I loved it. For about a month. Then I had to take care of it, and that’s where it all started to fall apart. Over the next few years, my hair continually got shorter and thinner. I got more and more lectures about doing my hair. So on that fateful day in my senior year, I took the plunge, cut off the perm, and broke free.

And that’s the way it’s been. Over the years, I've had a lot of different hairstyles, and I know they haven’t all been cute. I’ve grown it out and cut it off several times, but I’ve never broken out the chemical kit since.

The problem is, the other day, my resistance was down. Not an excuse, but it is the truth. I had a stomachache. And when I looked in the mirror that morning, I was definitely thinking about a change. Lastly, before my appointment, I hit a man on a bike. It was pretty safe to assume I wasn't think clearly. So when the barber pushed and pushed, I gave in. I knew it was wrong from the beginning. I was mad when he while he put in, I was pissed when it started to burn, and when I looked in the mirror and saw the lack of nap, I wanted to cry.

So now I'm stuck with it, a headful of almost curly hair, and two chemical burns. The only thing that made the trip better the 15 minute conversation w/ Will, the beautiful man who took care of my shampoo and rinse. (I now officially think the hair stylist/construction co. owner is the perfect combination in a man. Who else can tell you "I got this" in a nice masculine voice, and gently cradle your head in his big strong arms?)


The worst part about the whole thing is that everyone seems to like it more. I've had so many people tell me that my hair looks so much nicer, and really the only difference is that it's a little longer, a little less nappy. I hate the rule that says that a woman with short, natural hair is somehow less attractive than one that has a processed style. I don't believe it, I won't support it. I'm not weak anymore.

One more month, and I'm back to the real me. The natural me.

Are you crazy???

As I get older, I realize more and more that I have a lot of irrational thoughts/behaviors. I know they're not normal, I know that I shouldn't think they way that I do, but there I am, in some situation, doing or saying the craziest things.

Of course, not all examples are that serious, like the way that I have to separate the crust from the toppings on my pizza and smash my ice cream into my cake, or I how I still feel a surge of anger ever time I see Lawrence Fishbourne for the way he beat Tina's ass. People look at me crazy, but I keep on doin what I do.

Other things are more crucial. I went to the movies to watch Ray, feeling pretty guilty for taking to so long to support a movie that I heard was worthy. Not too far in, they start shooting up heroine. For reasons too long to get into, I am extremely sensitive about anything that shows drug use. So I see the needle, I freak out, and I curl up in a ball in the movie theater, kinda rocking back and forth with my eyes closed until the scene is over. I knew that I was acting silly, but I couldn't help it. And because I knew that I shouldn't act that way, I refused to leave, allowing myself to be tortured over and over again. This wasn't the first time it's happened. As time goes on, my crazy tendencies gets worse and worse, and I get more stuck in my ways.

My question is, is there really a way to overcome these, beyond hypnotism, or some other form of psychotherapy? I would like to think of it as mind over matter but, at least for me, my mind loses the battle the majority of the time. And I know that I'm not the only one who does crazy things. Maybe, really, we just have accept our odd little characteristics, see them as part of what makes us who we are... I don't know, maybe I'll break open a Reese's, slowly eat the outside, then savor that creamy middle, and ponder it for a while.

The Bachelorette Theory

I've sacrificed hours, days, summing up to weeks, of my life watching reality shows. For a while I thought it was just wasted time. Then, while I was talking to a friend about my favorite subject (my statistical likelihood of being single forever), all those hours spent staring zombie-like at the TV culminated to create what I like to call my "Bachelorette Theory".

The shows I liked the most were the dating ones, especially when the woman was the center of attention. 25 decent-looking guys vying for the attention of one girl... kinda gives me a flashblack to Spelman days. With that many choices you really get the chance to sort though the crowd to find the hidden gem.

So here's my theory:
Black women only have roughly a 40% chance of getting married once, and we all know the divorce statistics. If I have to live with those numbers over my head, I might as well treat my life like a dating game too. White girls aren't special! Give me (or anyone) 20-25 decent guys to choose from, and I guarantee I (or you) can find the man of my (or your) dreams.

Here's how the theory works: First you have to get over the idea of the "one" right person for you. We've all experienced that one we thought would be THE ONE, but face it y'all, we're older now, and still single. Forget love at first sight, and concentrate on long-term compatibility.

Next: This is real life, and I'm not a supermodel blonde, so we gotta add some ghetto-proof bachelor qualification rules:

1. You gotta be SINGLE- Not "I'm with someone, but she's cool w/ me talking to other girls". No empty ring finger w/ a suspiciously light indentation. DEFINITELY no on-the-side "friends, with benefits"!

2.The jobless need not apply! Not to hate, but I need all my money, and some of yours too. Your know the saying, "What's yours is mine..."

3. I'm not pregnant, so I don't think I'm ready for a man with any kids.... Really though, I don't want none of your baby mama drama. We can take plenty of time to make beautiful children together.

4. I'm imposing the age limit of 25-32. If you're as fine as Morris Chestnut or Brad Pitt, that rule can be overlooked, at my discretion.

5. You gotta have your own place. Nothing is worse than having to date a man's momma just to get a little closer to him.

And here's the DEAL-BREAKER!

5. You gotta be able to "go down" the path less traveled. I feel a little funny about including that, but without this one the whole game is off! Come on men, it's 2005! Do it, like it, love it! Love is a give and a take, and I can take a whole lot for the right man! Show me you can too.

Other than that, unless you have some kind of obvious defect, I am open to anything.

Those are my rules and I think they're fair. Stick them, and I believe my theory has a 99.95% chance of working out. The guidelines are flexible.
And I think 25 men is plenty of room for error, detours, and bad judgement.

Of course, I live in Idaho, and I can't really say that I'm an "equal opportunity lover", so it will be a while until I can really set my plan in action. But when I do, watch out! And if anyone else tries my theory, your results will be great appreciated!

Living in Foreign Territory

So I officially feel like one of those fuzzy brown animals who dives head first into the ocean, blindly following the masses... And I have a sinking feeling that I might drown in the end, before I remember to look up. Oh well, here's my toe-dip into the blog world.

So my main reason for writing is to fill the world in about my experiences living in a foreign country. Some of you may have heard of it, though I am sure that few of you have ever, or will ever, brave its borders.... We call it Idaho. If you thought, even for a moment, that Idaho might actually be part of THIS country, as YOU know it, you'd be wrong. I know some of you might try to fight me on this, but I know what I'm talking about. To gain the proper (and by that I mean MY) perspective, here are a few country facts:

Population: 1,300,000
BLACK Population: 5300 (rounded up)
Person per square mile: 15.6
% of Idaho black : A WHOPPING 0.4% !!!

Put the above together with these facts :

** Not a complete list **

1. I don't understand my people- By that, I mean the good old black folks. Somewhere between the 1997 and 2001, the Black Idahoans officially voted in a new language, and forgot to send me a notice. How can I have grown up here with my sister, in the same household, and not understand the word that come from her lips?

2. The lack of basic amenities found in other places- How hard should it be to get a basic haircut? Where can I go to find some hair grease? Where is a the wing shop? Can I get a good bootleg movie?

3. The conservative political views- Unofficially the most Republican state. Dema-what, Dema-who? If your motto's not "I think, therefore I'm Republican," stay far far away.

4. Inbreeding issues (Assuming I could actually find someone to date)- With the miniscule number of African-Americans present, before I seriously consider anything but holding hands, I gotta check the geneology for family ties. Unfortunately, I think my sister forgot that step (couldn't warn her 'cause of the language barrier).

I know that most black people have experienced some of these things, or even all of them, at some time. But put 'em all together in one location and what do ya get? Yep, something closely resembling a foreign land to any sane black person. I spent a whole year in Japan, and somehow I feel more lost in my own hometown...

Welcome to life in Idaho, more details to come...