Unbeweavable

(originally posted 1/06)

Okay *exhaling* y’all saw me waxing poetic and shit about my recent exploits with Hook. Now I gots to break it down ghetto style. Some of you know that I’ve recently taken to sporting a wig. Never mind that the wig bears a suspicious resemblance to the ringlets I painstakingly grew and so hastily cut off in anger. It doesn’t even matter that my primary reason for wearing it is to camouflage the results of yet another Misadventure in HairColor. To hell with the psychological implications of “hiding” underneath “fake” hair. In the spirit of “if you can’t laugh at yourself, who can you laugh at?”, this jo’nt right’chere is about nothing more than the pure comedy of what happens when a good wig goes on a good date that becomes a great one.

Before I get into the meat of this, I’d just like to give a MAJOR shout out to women who wear wigs all day every day, whether by choice or out of some sort of necessity. I have moments where I’m sorely tempted to ease that sucka off, right at my desk even, and scratch away. The only thing that stops me is my sense of vanity and propriety.

I’d indicated in the original posting about my interlude that Hook was a new acquaintance. I think it’s also pretty safe to assume that he’s really laid back. (either that or maybe he’s not the SHARPEST knife in the drawer? Iown’t know… I can’t call it so your guess is as good as mine)

He’d seen plenty of photographs of me, but I couldn’t remember whether or not those pics included any shots of my infamous platinum blonde uber-buzz. I believe in honesty and I know I mentioned when I described the outfit I was wearing I mentioned lots of extra hair. No problem… until later.

Now, I’m the original “fuck-it” chick. Don’t like me for who I am, or can’t handle my special brand of “keep-it-real”? Fuck it (and fuck you too, at that). I’ve been blessed with the ability to crease a nicca’s forehead to the white meat and keep on booking without so much as a care for the bloodstains (scotchguard is my FRIEND…and if I summon you to my presence and you find yourself standing on a tarp and me wearing plastic, yep, you bout to catch a shot to the dome.)

However, since this was a person I was still feeling out to an extent, I was loath to remove the wig in his presence (some shit you just DON’T do on the first date and I think blithely tossing one’s wig falls firmly into this category). Nothing could have prepared me for what I felt…I’m in the mix, doing the damn thing, getting my groove back, and oh what wonder to my head should appear, but THAT THE WIG…IS… SLIPPING (oh the horror). Not only that, I’ve been wearing it 16 hours a day and my hairline is on fire. Not fire… but fi-yah, like Lloyd Banks, on Fi-yah/up in heah/burnin’ hot/we on fi-yah. (feel free to bob your head to the beat)

How do even *I*, Enchantress Supreme, maintain her aura of mystery, sensuality and spontaneity, when mentally I’ve switched from flipping my mental play book to find yet another move that’s going to curl this brother’s toes to surreptitiously trying to hold my wig in place, or worse yet, SCRATCH? Hello? Scratchin’ aint sexy. Usually if you see someone scratching, you think, if you’d wash that, it wouldn’t itch, and that thought is followed by mentally crossing a line through that person in terms of your “He/She could get it” list (depending on what they’re scratching). Apparently, my solution is simple: use some bonding adhesive made for tracks in a few strategic locations and I should be good to go. That’s great for the next time I see him (and you can bet’cho LAST money and your GAS money there WILL be a next time)… but how does it translate for the right now?

From the other entry, you’ll remember that we spent both Saturday night and Sunday night together. This meant that I was stuck wearing that blickie two consecutive overnights in a row. BOO! BOO I SAY! I’m not ashamed to tell y’all that I crept into the bathroom more than once to take that bitch off and scratch like Kid Capri. Having him with me that Sunday was a surprise, so imagine my shock when it’s time for me to start getting ready and he’s still there. I hoped against hope that he wasn’t going to try and get me to take a shower with him. Geez-mo flip. *smacking self in forehead*

Then the worst thing happened…he realized how late he was, and he needed to leave asap. I’d been in the bathroom in the stocking cap that I wear under the wig, applying a light makeup and he got me before I could close the door OR snatch the wig on right quick. I needed to let him out asap so I proceeded to ignore the elephant in the living room and hoped that my striding to the door naked to see him off would distract him from the fact that I was short roughly a foot and a half of hair. I didn’t say anything and neither did he. He hit me with a peck on the cheek on the way out, and called a few minutes later to ask what I was doing, but the subject of the hair is still unaddressed.

I know there’s never REALLY a good time to take a wig off in front of someone you’re romantically involved with while things are still new (unless you’re Laura Hays and snatching that fucker off as the punch line to a joke, but I digress). I also know that I shouldn’t care, and that if I continue to see him, eventually he’s going to discover the puppeteer that resides within my Emerald City. I guess I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it. Only time will tell.

I know one thing’s for sure. I’ll be glad when this damn orange is a thing of the past and I’ve got enough hair to start my twists. Yes, this is the year I begin my locs. I’ve endured enough trial and tribulation to have earned the right to wear them. At least I think so. I’ll try it, and if I don’t like it… yup, I’ll shave it bald and start over (here goes that “fuck-it” mentality again).

What I’ve realized here is that, to mine own self I must forever be true, no matter what accessories I'm wearing.