So, i'm getting that quarter month itch--well, it's actually been more like 3 months--to give things a shakeup and get my hair did. A lot has been made about black hair, so i won't do a Chris Rock standup here, but i will say how much i love the freedom to just be and not allow too much of who i am (or not) to be tucked between the tangles of my nappy coils. i think it hysterical how many "keep on, sistah!"s i get when i wear my hair out, sans braids. And the counterpoint to that is amusing too. i was home in jozzie, celebrating my birthday with my sisters. they suggested dinner at
Sophiatown Bar Lounge--LOVE--followed by some shimmy in Newtown.
Okey worthwhile deviation...
Anyone who carries Kofifi's spirit is worth our time and Sophiatown Bar Lounge has a charming little story-
two African brothers (no, not making a conscious reference to their hairstyles:) founded the spot, Rasta and Mzwandile Thabethe. Love that they got bit by the entrepreneurial bug lending a hand at the family's fruit+vege store. Sweet, right?
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Clearly, It's A Hair-Attack. LOVE! Image: M. Makhene, 2009. |
Back to the birthday.
You know your girl looked fly. Hair did, fitted all fierce, I was def rocking it out.
So i convince my sister to pop into a poetry reading next door, a friend had organized it. i mean, why can't i
supplement shimmy+moonshine with some high minded words, right? And here we walk in, store-bought hair gleaming and all. The place heaved such a loud silence. Everyone was in dreadlocks and hot neat little fros atop i'd be dead before i wore anything approaching lipcolor faces. Beautiful, honest. But i will never forget the chill that entered the room when we walked in. Our hair and peanut buttered faces seemed to shout out our otherness, our westernization and probably also our questionable consciousness. No one called me Sistah! that night. No one mistook me for "Queen" or "Empress".
Funny, cuz i was still me, afro/weave/braids or no hair and all.