Reserved Reverence: A Hair Story

Somewhere before my 18th birthday and long before Lauryn Hill spit "hair weaves like Europeans/ nails done by Koreans/ come again," I got this urge to be as God intended. I think I'd just read The Autobiography of Malcolm X a fifth time or maybe I'd just copped the first Badu album, or maybe I'd just completed my first African-American studies class in college. Then again, it could have been the open sores on my head from my perm staying on too long to alleviate any sign of a kink. (I believed in getting it straight.) It could have been the track glue that seemed to get everywhere and never come out (my pre sew-in days), or maybe it was sitting in the nail salon on Saturday for hours waiting to have my nails filled in by a woman I couldn't communicate with beyond gesticulating and basic English that only got complex when it came to telling me tab. Whatever the motivation, the result was the removal of my bra-strap long, jet black, bone-straight weave, axeing my hair into a Caesar to get rid of all the perm, and popping off my airbrushed acrylic nails.

I did it for convenience (no longer fearing the rain, sweat or humidity) and self-love and so I wouldn't be slave to salons anymore. I expected to be free-er. What I didn't expect was the reaction I got from men.

With a perm, I was "Aye short-ay" and if a dude hollered and I didn't speak, I sometimes became all types of "bitches" and "hoes" as I kept walking down the block. Dudes opening lines were peppered with drops about what they could afford, what expensive location that they wanted to take me to, what they could do for me. (I guess I looked like a gold digger?) Sans-perm, I got 'Hello, Sista." I suddenly became "Beautiful Black Queen" and "Nubian Princess" and a whole range of other endearing, respectful sentiments. (My biggest crush refers to me as "Nubiana" these days. *Sigh*) I get doors opened by strange men who ran to open them and told me with appreciative sincerity, "you look very nice today.” And seats on the subway, which are damn near unheard of in this city. The block huggers in my neighborhood offer to carry my bags from the grocery store or send their sons over to help. Nine-tenths of men I encounter go out of their way to be chivalrous in a way I never experienced with acrylics and a perm. (One guy literally laid down his jacket for me to walk over a puddle a la LL Cool J on "I Need Love.") I didn't carry myself any different, didn't dress any different. The only thing that changed was my hair so I have to surmise that the hair is what made the male response to me switch up.

Earlier this year, I got the bright idea to straighten my hair. A couple well-placed tracks, 5 hours, 2 blow dryers and a pressing comb later, I had a bob with bangs (pre-Rhinnna dammit) that skimmed my shoulders. I went out to a Giant party at Cielo on Day Two and people that I saw 3-4 nights a week for the last few years didn't recognize me. (One of my aces greeted me like a fan, then did a double-take.) I had to re-introduce myself. That wasn't the bad part. That was the hollering from dudes again. The "Aye, Ma", the ungodly psst, psst, and the staple of let-me-get-at-you, "Excuse me Miss, can I have a moment of your time?" The latter wouldn't have been so bad, except that it was coming from 18-year-old boys with cornrows and du-rags and pants hanging off their ass. My new hair attracted a new man that I didn't dig. (For better or worse, I typically only pull guys with MBAs or who work in Finance. I can't figure it out why, but I am not mad at it.) The quality guys who I usually get approached by that make up the staple of my dating life were nowhere to be found. After 10 days of suffering through pressing my edges every morning and one "well fuck you then.... Bitch" when I didn't respond to a man hollering out his car window (are there women who actually walk up to the window?), I said "eff this" and stuck my head under the shower stream to get my kink back.

I'd tell you what disrespectful dudes say now when I ignore them, but I honestly cannot remember the last time a dude was disrespectful to me when I’ve had nappy hair. I've got multiple reasons for rocking kinky hair (or at least naturalesque.) But the top of the list is the way I'm treated in the street. For whatever reason, there's a reserved reverence that most men hold for un-permed hair. I like being treated like a Queen. And though I'm never mad at the respect that comes from wearing my hair without chemical processing, I just wonder why I'm just a chick or a shor-tay or aye bay bay with straight hair and a Nubiana with some kink to it. I'm a Queen either way, but shouldn't I always be treated as one regardless of the way I wear my hair?

(Men, I know you're reading 'cause you blast me about how hard I am on dudes. I'm dying to hear your comments on this.)

Relationals

Hey Honeys!

I am headed to DC for CBC weekend. I have absolutely nothing to do with politics beyond being the offspring of a man who lives it. I am going strictly for the parties. Even before I discovered that our Nation's Capital is also a big party city, this was always a HUGE weekend. It's when the black political industry decides to celebrate itself and goes all out with fashion shows, concerts, and straight throwdowns. The only weekend that tops this in the city is Howard's Homecoming if you went to an HBCU. (Sidenote: Boo to HU, who is conveniently sharing its homecoming weekend with my alma mater this year, thus completely overshadowing any UMCP events.)

Anyway, as I've been preparing to travel and tie-up loose NY ends before my weekend departure, I haven't had time to edit a new blog (at any given time, I have 5 or so in production, but I don't clean em up till right before I post.) So today, you get your first guest.

She's been mentioned before a few times on here--not a regular like Penelope, Ace, and Tariq--but she pops up under a pseudonym (like everyone else). She's a hilarious BK-by- way-of-Cali-girl (but not the stereotype) and super insightful without even trying. Over a sushi dinner in BK on Saturday, she summed me up as "that girl." The one who lives in a bubble (mostly true) and often fails to notice the subtly obvious until it's blatant. She has a totally different perspective on life than me and is 2x the socialite that I am. Oh, and she's also a dope writer.

We were Uptown one night with the DC-in-NY crew at Society and she mentioned this very new term: RELATIONALS. (I mentioned it in the last blog.) I insisted she write about it. The world needs this PSA.

Here goes:

dunno what this blog is going to be called but my girl amelda said i should write one after our conversations last night…so here goes na-than

RELATIONALS: after teaching a couple of my DC buddies how to play bones and scream out “DOMINO MU’FUCKA!!!” like on Snoop’s first record–Cali style-E of course–we got into a convo about relationships…or lack thereof. knew it was gonna happen, with 3 chics and 3 dudes, nobody was dating, everybody just friends. you know how that goes…

FIRST: you’re prolly like what the fuck is a relational…comically, my boy and I had a conversation earlier this year about folks that are in undefined situations (read: relationships) and because no one’s ever made the situation exclusive it can’t be an “official relationship” BUT you’re dealing with each other like bf or gf? THAT’S a relational.

RELATIONAL CHECKLIST: if these joints apply to you-watch yo back!

1) you’ve been dating and/or sleeping with this person steady for longer than 5-6 months with no commitment

2) when they page or call you, you hit them back quickly because “you don’t want to hear their mouth” or you don’t hit them purposely to punish them for something they’ve done

3) when you use the bathroom at their apartment, you have your own towel, toothbrush and/or soap

4) you guys have arguments about little things like him/her wearing shoes in your shoe-less apartment, dirty dishes or hair in the shower because you’ve had to tell them one too many times

5) you guys routinely spend time together a couple times a week and when the QT doesn’t happen, someone has to explain

6) songs like Plies’ “shawty,” 50’s “Follow My Lead,” John Legend’s “Another Again” or any other “I really like you but we’re not together” tracks remind you of that person

7) your friends know you’re together but NOT together

8) you’ve ever had to say, “I’m sorry” for some shit that prolly wasn’t your fault to keep the peace if more than three of these predicaments apply to you, then you might want to either lock that situation down, or move on because-take it from me-that joint could go on for YEARSSSSSSSS, lol…

LIKE BLACKSHEEP-THE CHOICE IS YOURS: now the men in last night’s convo brought up a good point, saying people only treat you how you let them treat you. and if women folk allow the men folk to get away with “relationals” (not to say that chics aren’t instigating relationals too, we do) then we’re enablers. and i had to agree. you know when you’re in some dead end situation that’s never going to mature for whatever reason. like keyshia cole- “you need to get if he ain’t gonna love you the right way–he don’t wanna.” and alot of us ladies like/love the dude so much, that we’ll take their presence in any wack ass form…but FUCK THAAAAAAAAAAAT. move on, or else you’ll most likely miss the person that WILL take off their shoes in your apartment, wash the dishes and keep the shower clean.

If you want to more insight on her, check out her other MySpace blogs at www.myspace.com/killahills

Snapshots of My Brooklyn Life: Part 2

I have a great life. Mostly because I am surrounded my great, hilarious, overly observant people. (Leads me to believe that I am doing something right.) I compiled a few of the crazy, random thoughts that they’ve said over the last month or so. And yes, the names are changed to protect the nutty.

I would love to write each of their stories in a complete blog, but I’m saving the good stuff for the book :-) Just wanted to give you a taste of what’s eventually coming and the fools (said with love) that inspire me to write.

Hope you find this as funny this time around as you did last time.

Quotes

‘’I appreciate your respect for my gangsta.'’- a lesbian chick @ Night of the Cookers, who fed a beautiful woman, left with her, and came back 15 minutes later with a different, equally beautiful woman. (My boys dapped her up for her flawless pimp skills.)

‘’I think I’m an imaginary hoe'’- Ace @ Republic having a moment of reflection while watching the men go by and lusting mightily.

‘’I saw balls!'’- a conservative, Christian woman, recapping an episode of HBO’s Tell Me You Love Me. In the hour long premiere, she saw a man ‘getting happy by himself'’, a 60 y.o. woman giving head to her husband, a hand job, and a few other graphic sex scenes. She called to ask if I’d seen it and more importantly, if I knew when the next episode would air.

Man A: ‘’What I got to do with that bitch being pregnant? I ain’t tell that ho I wanted a kid.'’
Man B: ‘’Man, these hookers out here…'’
-overheard conversation b/w 2 guys while walking through Brooklyn Heights, confirming (again) my belief that a lot of heterosexual men like p***y but not women. (I stumbled when he called the woman a hoe.)

‘’You’re a horrible wingman'’ -Timothy, an amazingly beautiful platonic male friend (we love each other as friends, would commit simultaneous suicide if we were in a relationship) after he met several of my women friends and I absentmindedly failed to put in a good word for him (Sorry, women don’t have to do that.)
‘’Well, you had the chance to have me, D, now you’re in my Save for Later box too…'’ - Fidel, an absolutely gorgeous platonic male friend, smugly informing me that my window of opportunity had closed after I wondered out loud about the panty-dropping effect he has on most women (I’ve never seen a fully clothed man get so much attention.)

‘’Is this coincidence or you think it actually means something?'’- Rome, who is chocolate-dipped in masculine essence, after in a week’s time I bumped into him on the train, two parties the following night, a party the next day, the train again coming home from work that Friday, a party three days later, then again on the train the following morning. (I’ve bumped into him 2 more times since I initially wrote this blog. Last night he saw me again and said, ‘’I'm sick of seeing you now…. Joke.'’)

‘’Relationships are like working an assembly line. You tighten a screw, loosen a bolt and each woman passes him on to the next worker. Eventually he’s complete, then someone buys him and takes him home.'’ –Celice the Brilliant over brunch at my new favorite BK restaurant.

‘’My phone stopped ringing. This must be what women feel like'’- Shane in SoHo, the week after he decided to go celibate and informed all his ladyfriends.

‘’You have to look your best. Try to have sex the night before.'’- Hov’s advice on how to up my swagger and clear up my skin for an upcoming event. (Pray for me. Right now. Bow your head and send up a prayer to Bless me.)

‘’I don’t write, I get high and ignite?! That’s a metaphor for your ass'’ - a BK teenager going crazy in the street at 9AM over a Wayne line. (I’m impressed by the lyric, more impressed that the kid knew a metaphor when he heard one outside the classroom. An English teacher somewhere is on point.)

"Do you know how bad it is when she doesn't swallow? When a woman spits out my seed like it's disgusting? It just hurts. You have no idea, just no idea." - a drunk, very emotional man on the walk to the train at 3:30 am (don't ask). This is what I get for trying to discuss feelings with a group of (gorgeous, tall, usually articulate) men post-club.**

"Everybody doesn't get to live the dream"- Carmen's boss, explaining why she is lucky to work where she does (Evidently she has no idea how much she hates her job.)

"Womp womp"--Exie's cousin in the background after Exie declines via phone my post-midnite invite to hang out. (He's now mad that I don't take him seriously or call at decent hours. Who is the chick in this relational (see forthcoming blog by a guest writer for definition)?)

“I don’t know why he’s playing. The closet door is open, the light it on, but he’s in the back trying to hide behind the coats. I’m like ‘hallo, we can see your feet!’”– Ace on why a shared acquaintence should just confirm to his wife (and us) what we’ve all known for a decade

**I've been avoiding the Learn to Swallow Blog for months. I see I'm going to have to suck it up and just do it (no pun intended.)

"Exie"

Recently, I was on the phone whining to my former flame after another disastrous date.

Pause. I’m being dramatic.

He’s not my former flame and the date wasn’t disastrous. Exie is an "old friend" and the date? Turns out Mr. Amazing has a kid that’s almost a toddler.

Exie asks if this is the same guy who messed up my [electronic device]? It’s not. ED fell by the wayside too. Good guy, but he habitually referred to himself in the third person.

I get asked about other people I’ve mentioned to Exie in passing since we became "just" friends late last year. The lovely specimen who mispronounced any word over three syllables and some two syllabic words too (he was really nice), the producer who strung me along (Exie actually co-signed this one for awhile), the industry guy who... Hold up. There’s nothing wrong with him… except he’s in the industry.

Exie listens intently, pointing out more flaws that I seem to have forgotten about these dudes. Then he launches into how he still needs to come through my spot and fix the electronic device the other dude messed up.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m buzzing him in to the apartment. The first thing he says when he walks in: ‘’Daddy’s home.'’

I roll my eyes and fling his jacket on the back of a chair. He’s not staying long.

Exie, who bought the damn device (long story), undoes dude’s re-wiring (longer story) and redoes it back the right way. It takes him five minutes and when he finishes, he turns around with a stern father-look and says, ‘’don’t let no dudes play in my sh*t again, D.'’ I couldn’t tell if was talking about the system or something else.

He’s being weird. I roll my eyes again.

I watch as he sits on the couch and fiddles with the remote. The previews for some movie come on.

‘’You testing to see if it works?'’

He just looks at me. ‘’You got any juice? Get the lights on your way back too.'’

‘’Um, you’re staying?'’

‘’I shouldn’t have ever left.'’

I plop on the couch and snatch the remote from his lap, flip back to cable and flick through the channels. The system is good as new.

‘’Why aren’t we together?'’ Exie asks like it's a question I should have been expecting.

I pause in flipping channels, but I don't look at him. ‘’Huh?'’

‘’You heard me.'’

‘’Cause we’re just friends.'’ BET, BETJ, VH1, VH1 Soul, MTV, MTV2...

He snickers. ‘’No, we’re not.'’

Er? ‘’So what are we then?

‘’When you need something, who do you call?'’

Oooh! Sex and the City re-runs on TBS. ‘’Depends on what I need.'’

‘’Stop being difficult.'’

“I’m not being difficult.'’

Exie takes the remote and clicks off the TV and surround sound. I look at him finally, giving him the undivided attention he clearly wants.

‘’When you need something, you call me. When someone else f*cks up, you call me to fix it.'’

I grab a magazine from the coffee table. Oooh Keyshia Cole on Essence! ‘’Is this about the ED?'’

‘’No, listen.'’ He waits until I put the magazine back and give him my full attention again.

‘’You need to talk? I’m here. You don’t want to be alone? I’m here. You got a problem? I get it fixed, you understand?'’

I nod. ‘’So like, where are you going with this?'’

‘’If I’m the one you always run to, why aren’t we together?'’

I thought, What?! but I didn’t mean to blurt it out.

‘’It makes sense, D." He's staring at the coffeetable like it's going to talk back. "We kick it, we party, we chill, we never argue. I still like you. I know you still like me.

‘’You think I like you?'’ I ask playfully, trying to make light of the conversation.

‘’Would I be here if you didn’t?'’ He's dead serious.

Touche.

‘’So whatdoya think about that?'’ He takes my hand and I look at our fingers intertwined, then look up at him. For the first time in nearly a year, I think about us. He makes valid points. He’s dependable, reliable, likeable, fine. I’m definitely attracted to him. We don’t argue and he is fine. (Did I say that already?)

‘’Um… I dunno.'’

‘’You don’t know?'’ He nods, presses his lips together. ‘’So think about it, okay? I’m serious, D.'’

He reaches for the remote, leans back and flips back to the DVD. The opening scene to love jones flashes across the screen.

"love jones?" I attempt that one eyebrow thing again and fail miserably.

"It's your favorite movie, right?"

"I didn't tell you that."

He laughs. "I read your blog."

He motions for me to lean on him. I get his juice, cut the light and then I snuggle into his masculinity (a wall of man, it is.) Why haven't I thought about dating Exie before? It makes sense. It's just honestly never crossed my mind since we agreed to be just friends.

Could I date Exie? Is that really any different than what we do now?

When Darius fumbles his drink at the bar, I turn on Exie, look up at his face.

He looks down, kisses my nose. "Keep thinking. No rush."

Tipping Points

By and large, I live on an island of attractive people. Whether it's natural or affected, whatever the source of a New Yorker's beauty, a good one-fourth of the population (appx. 2 million people) are easy on the eyes. Being pretty or handsome here might get you a base, but it won't score you a homerun. (Amazing how many people still think it will.) Anyone who's lived here longer than a year should have noticed by now that just around the block, there's always a woman prettier, curvier and with a smaller waist and a bigger booty and a man with bigger muscles, a more chiseled jaw and a larger salary. In order to stand out or leave an impression or make it even semi-big, you have to be about more than just a pretty face or a dope body– you need a personality or at the very least a skill or a hobby.

A guy I had just met insulted a frenemy. I'd met him -sort of--four years prior when I was just starting as freelance writer. He was my editor at a music magazine and he'd assigned me lots of work over the years. We'd e-mailed, texted, and phoned a hundred times, but had never met face to face. He has a unique name so when I was at a party and I heard someone say it, I asked my girl to introduce me. She did. Although, I hadn't written for him in a bit, he remembered my name and my work and he--who has a rep for his ego--was very sweet to me. He ran down some upcoming projects and said he'd be interested to get me involved. We exchanged new info.

The frenemy, also a writer, approached him after he and I had parted ways. He wasn't so nice. He tersely suggested she send him her clips to review and summarily dismissed her. The difference in his reaction to us.... Well, it made the frenemy feel not so nice.

Months later, after the guy and I have worked together a few times and become pretty cool face-to-face, I asked him about the incident. A true journalist, he remembered it in detail. He didn't see anything wrong with what he did since he didn't know who the hell she was.

"She's a pretty girl, you could have been nicer," I insisted, trying to convince him of the error of his ways.

He scrunches up his face. "She was okay, but even if she was cute, do you know how many pretty girls there are in this city? Pretty ain't nothing special, D. You gotta be more than pretty to make someone care."

I'm at dinner with a very attractive platonic male friend a couple weekends back and he spots yet another beautiful woman in the restaurant. Like the others, she's adorable too. *Big shrug.* He tries to catch this one's eye a couple times and she's polite but not eager. This piques his interest a bit. She smiles the next time she walks by (she's a hostess) and he thinks he has a chance. Finally after this little flirtation goes on for a few more moments, he pulls her aside to speak while I zone out and listen to the loud band playing in the corner.

They chat a little more until some more people come into the overcrowded, loud establishment to be seated and she has to go back to work.

"She's going to Newark tomorrow," he says as she walks off. He gives what would be a smitten sigh if a woman did it, but I'm told men don't sigh.

I look at him like he's stupid. "You're impressed because she's going to Newark?! Have you ever been to f***ing Newark?"

"What? " He slams his Corona on the table and now he gives me the you-can-not-be-this-stupid look. "She's going CANOOEING!!!" he yells over the music.

"Oh!!!!!" Pause. "Canoeing?" I turn around and look at her again, then turn back to him. He looks lost and love struck. "Interesting," I add and take another sip of my chocolate martini.

"I know, right?" There goes that non-sigh again.

I roll my eyes and laugh.

I'm on the train yesterday morning with the guy I keep running into. We're up to seven unplanned bump-intos in ten days. (Someday he'll figure out that I barely talk not because I am mean or shy or stuck up, but because: 1) he has the most gorgeous profile ever and I can't pay attention to what he's saying for all the warnings I send myself to stop gawking and resisting the urge to bite the tip of his nose (I think it is sooooo cute); and more important 2) he is a low-talker on a loud train and I can never hear what he's saying and I hate to sound stupid as I keep saying "what? huh?") Anyway, we strike up a conversation and he's telling me about how he ran a marathon last year and how he only does it every other year because it takes so much out of him and... Hold, up! He ran The Marathon, twenty six-point-whatever -tenth miles around and through the city? A Black man... who runs marathons?

Now, I'm giving him the same cheese-y grin that my boy made over Canoe Girl. I run daily and I have no desire to run all damn day ever. (Did you ever see the pics of Diddy's post-run feet on that MTV Diddy Runs the City show? His toenails turned black and fell off!!!) But that's not the point. The point is Bump-Into-Guy is now beautiful and not run of the mill, evidently. I was always attracted, now I'm interested to know more. I actually want to hear what this gorgeous man with this cute-tipped nose has to say. I guess he picks up on this switch in perceptions (I am, after all, grinning at him with my head cocked to the side) so he asks what I'm doing later. Maybe, he suggests, we can actually plan to get up instead of just bumping into each other randomly all the time?

You already know my answer. ; -)

The Girl, Not the Girlfriend

"I don’t need any more friends.'’ It’s what Tariq told a woman he dated freshman year after she decided that she was feeling somebody else more. He’d moved on too and he and the girl who said this were parting on good terms. He’d always thought the girl was cool as hell and enjoyed hanging out with her, but for whatever reason, he wasn’t interested in being just her friend.

For years, I thought he was an ass for handling things that way. But now I get it.

I’d met a boy. Remember the one that had me posting all erratic throughout July because I was cooing in his pretty face? The one who said when I was near-death last month, ‘’D, come to Queens so I can take care of you?'’ The one who sent me a book called Queens about black women and their fabulous hair and their love for it as a Get Well present… Hold up, did I tell ya’ll that last one? Well anyway, he wants to be just friends.

His version of events: we were always just friends. You misinterpreted things.

My version of events: I ain’t misinterpret ish. (I checked every action against He’s Just Not That Into You. This guy acted like was.) I assume now that he a) found somebody he liked better or b) it was all flawless game from the start or c) both of the above.

WANT TO READ MORE BELLE? STAY TUNED FOR MY BOOK IN JUNE 2011: A BELLE IN BROOKLYN: ADVICE FOR LIVING YOUR SINGLE LIFE & ENJOYING MR. RIGHT NOW (ATRIA)