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The Big Hair Scare
“Don’t do it, Hal,’’ I pleaded.
“That is an assault,’’ I continued, “on a defenceless victim who will get back at you one day.’’
“I have to,’’ came the emotional but stubborn response.
“Try love,’’ I countered, desperately.
“This is for the best,’’ Hal said, as she courageously made the first snips.
I gulped as a pebble stuck in my throat, and I tried to believe that the drastic hair reduction therapy she was attempting was a good idea.
I am always worried when Women of the Fro want to take shears and chain saws to their crowns of glory. My heart fluttered for my pal Hal, whose Bantu knots are like cute, lovable babies—you just want to cuddle and pinch them.
Was she going baldhead because people in high places think that the only professional hair look for a woman of her ethnic persuasion involves a bottle of VO5 and a rubber band?
Had the Daughters of the Weave managed to separate her from the herd?
Was she fed up of airport security officials rummaging through her magnificent crop because they think she might be hiding explosives in there? Hey, it happens to singer Solange Knowles, and my stylish friend Judette does not even bother to wait for the stern-faced matrons to wave her out of the line; she automatically dips her head and invites them to dive in, and then they have a nice girly talk about conditioners and pomades.