My Crowning Glory, page 10
“It kinda is his business. You'll have his daughter living in the same space as some random dude. Has he even met, Michael? Would you want her around one of his chicken heads on a day to day basis without meeting and liking her?” Porsche turned her body to face Ebonee.
“No, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t do it anyway. We’re both going to move on with our lives at some point one or both of us will get married and we may not like each other’s people. That ish happens every day.” Ebonee said.
“Some day one or all of us are going to have to grow up. I mean we need to put in an order for some big girl panties because high school was over a long time ago.” Porsche said.
***
My weekend started rough and ended horrible. The very reason I’d subjected myself to all the ridicule and frustration of the last few months was to be true to myself. No more relaxers because I hated the way my hair went limp and fought to keep any kind of curl. When people commented on my long thick bone straight hair for years I craved something full of volume, bouncy curls and just life! I open my email, excited because one of the vendors from one of the expos I attended, emailed me.
My excitement turned to fury in less than a second as I read the email. Not because I hate being sold on something. According to my Dad, I’m a retailer’s wet dream, which traumatized me and got my attention because my Dad just doesn’t use that kind of language. I’m all about a BOGO coupon, buy now save later and don’t ... no really DO NOT offer me anything free. These emails are the reason my father purchased a copy of every book by Michelle Singletary. At one point, I wanted to tell him to stop because he was wasting money. Outside Dr. Kimbro’s “Think and Grow Rich,” I thought my Dad believed Dave Ramsey to be the only person on earth qualified to tell anyone how to save, earn and grow money.
The foolishness of this email made me want to remember where I met the vendor and smack some sense into them. Hard as I went off on my friends to defend my choice to stop relaxing my hair, I’ll defend their choice to sew, glue, clip, relax, texturize, dye, fry and lay their hair to the side. All I needed to set it off between Zoe and me would be to show up anywhere with a shirt that said, “Creamy Crack is Whack.” She and I would be brawling harder than Gangham style.
Did I take the time to research the connection between fibroids and relaxers after I heard about it? Yes. Did I feel the need to make my friends feel guilty, bad or irresponsible for the hairstyle they chose? HELL NO! Want to risk a platform heel to the side of the head? Threaten to tell a black woman how to wear or not wear her hair. You interested in having a plug of your own hair pulled out in fury from the root? Over step your bounds on the wrong day with the right “sistah” and you’ll find yourself in some stylist chair for an emergency bald spot cover-up.
The nerve and gall of these women to diss someone because they weren’t interested in going natural. A black man could be elected President of the United States but black women couldn’t be trusted to make a decision about how they styled the dead protein growing from their scalp. Really? By the third time my laptop made the please stop pressing that button it doesn’t do anything alert, I advanced from seeing red to seeing burgundy.
An alert on my phone reminded me I’d promised my godmother to call her and make a date for lunch. Our relationship took a hit in the time we spent together while I finished my master’s degree but we both wanted to rectify the situation. If anyone could make sense of all the craziness around the natural hair craze, my Momma Maya was the woman for the job.
Some tee shirts were so cute but the messages were so ... side eye mean to women whose hair had done nothing to warrant me looking down my nose at them. Hell, a few months ago, I used to be one of them. No way on Earth, I’d ever be comfortable wearing a shirt with any of these sayings:
“Creamy Crack is Whack”
“No Lye” mine would have to say “No Lye recently” what a joke.
“Just Say No to Creamy Crack”
“Stay Off the Creamy Crack”
“Ex-Perm Addict” Perms are for curly hair and I wasn’t addicted so yeah, no!
“Relaxers are Evil” how is this productive, necessary or positive?
“I Was Natural Before the Hype” this one is cute but still not so nice.
“I’m Off the Creamy Crack”
Wow... I wasn’t addicted. I hated every minute ... I just didn’t know I had alternatives. I just learned about natural hair only stylist who did more than straighten hair in Macon. Several blogs revealed many women in more rural areas, still don’t have them.
One of the girls in my favorite natural hair group on Facebook was asking another poster to have a natural stylist come to their town because she doesn’t want to wear weaves or a press, silken -- whatever you call when they straighten it -- all the time.
My sigh echoed in my living room, it was so loud. After the last relaxed hair hate shirt, I deleted the email without looking at the positive message shirts. The silliness of a need to “preach” at another woman about my hair with my tee shirt was beyond words for me. I saw a few cute flirt shirts on display when we were at the World Natural Hair Show. I wanted to buy one, once I decided what to do. My favorite slogans included different silhouettes of curly hair and afros.
“Natural Girls Rock”
“I love My Hair”
‘The Only Regret I have about being natural is I didn’t do it sooner” this is true for me and I love it.
“I Love Being Natural” So far I liked the possibility but I’m not sure if I love it yet. I won’t really know if I love it until I cut off my relaxed hair.
I dialed my Mom Maya’s number. Her voicemail started on the second ring. “Hey, Mom. It’s me please text, email or call me with when your available to hang out. Miss you, Nisa.”
Chapter 11
Most women fall over themselves for roses, lilies or flowers of any kind. Not me. Once those beauties come out of the ground, their days are numbered and I hate the thought of them dying. Silly to some, but it is how I feel. Wilson shared my sentiment and we started this tradition of exchanging Dollar Tree teddy bears and toys. One Valentine's Day he bought me the cutest pink and red piggy.
Hopes were high when he sent me a picture of a new Dollar Tree animal with an invitation to dinner. More than I loved how much he respected me. I appreciated that this man could cook. Not warm up, not follow some recipes but he could cook, almost as well as my mother and me. Candle light dinner meant something amazing and southern.
The smell of caramel and sugar accosted my nostrils as Wilson opened the door. His dessert was the only thing that tasted better than his dishes. Braised lamb chops, oven roasted red potatoes and the crispest green beans this side of the Mason Dixie line, are the second reason I fell in love with this man. He’d out do himself each time he cooked for me. Once the new relationship shine wore off, he cooked for me less and less often. Now he only cooked when he wanted to get back in my good graces. The time since I told him my decision to go natural felt like one big argument. I had no idea what he prepared tonight, outside my favorite dessert, his caramel love delight.
Wilson allowed his eyes to take me in from the tip of my feet to the top of head. He hesitated for a moment then planted the sweetest kiss on my lips. Not too quick or too slow, it was just right. A bottle of my favorite wine materialized from behind his back.
“I can’t with you, this is too much.” He placed the wine in the chiller on the table. Two serving platter covers sat on opposite sides of the chiller. “Appetizers are in the living room. Your favorite, my Cajun calamari.”
Wait, you said what now! This jokah was trying to make up and make me drop my drawls with one meal. No, he didn’t make my favorite appetizer and dessert. The only way this night would be better would be if he made my favorite dinner, too.
“Alright, what is the occasion? I didn’t forget our anniversary, did I?” He pulled me into his lap in the oversized armchair.
“I love you, no matter what. That is all the occasion needed.” Wilson planted another sweet kiss on my cheek.
“Hm ... mmmm.” Did he smell like cinnamon and vanilla? Good grief, this man was trying to dismantle every defense and diffuse all the frustration built up between us over three months in one night and it was working.
“Aw, you love me, too? Because I couldn’t decipher, with all that moaning you’re doing. What would the neighbors think?” He smiled.
“Don’t know and don’t care. Yes, Wilson, I do love you.” The calamari melted in my mouth like ice on a hot Macon day. Every spice and flavor lingered on my tongue. His recipes tasted customized to my palate.
“Let me help you with that.” Wilson placed me between his legs and fed me the rest of the calamari. He ate one, and I ate one.
I enjoyed the most intimate and sweet thing we’d shared in months. The feel of his chest on my back and his arms around my waist made me question why I waited so long to share everything with him. Outside misunderstanding about my hair, we’d been so in harmony my friends thought I was crazy not to give him some. “Don’t you know that eating calamari is supposed to be an aphrodisiac? Or was that your plan all along, Mr. Greene.”
“Oysters are supposed to get you in the mood. I don’t need either when I’m with you. Your presence sends me into overdrive. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice when you sat down.”
I gulped.
A timer chimed from the kitchen. “C’mon.”
Disappointment, where relief used to show up, startled me as he helped me up and led me to a seat at the table. He disappeared into the kitchen then returned with a basket of fresh French bread.
“You made French baguettes. Are you serious?” My two strand twists danced as I shook my head.
“You know I’d love to cook for you, like this, everyday.” Wilson interlaced his fingers with mine.
“You know I’d love to let you cook for me, like this.” My stomach felt warm when he kissed the tips of my fingers. “What’s stopping you?”
He smiled and poured wine into his then my glass. His eyes paused on my hair. The smile faltered then filled out again. A small box on his side of the chiller caught my eye and the breath caught in my chest. “In all honesty, there is only one thing keeping me from asking you to be my wife, Anisa.”
Dread filled my stomach. My inexperience was a plus to him, he joked about how special it would be to know I’d never been with anyone but him on our wedding night. The thought he questioned his desire to marry me because of my hair made me want to punch him. “What is that, Wilson?”
“I’m not sure we want the same things anymore. You made some interesting points last time we talked. Most guys are not okay with having a woman ambitious as you. I find your hustle and grind, sexy. I was caught off guard by what you said, about me being your Stedman. He is successful but I had to do some research. If he were with anyone other than Oprah, his success wouldn’t be dwarfed.” He kissed my hand and placed it next to my plate.
“How does that translate to us not wanting the same things? I said he was successful.” My stomach churned.
“You're so driven to be influential in what you do. Will you have time to have kids? Stedman already had a family before he met Oprah. We’d have to start our family together. Will you make time for that in your schedule? Who's going to stay home with our kids, drive them to their activities? My mother was a big part of my upbringing. Are you going to be around to watch our kids grow up?” He cleared his throat.
“Of course I’ll be around. I wasn’t saying that I'd be gone and leave you home to tend the hearth. My statement was about work ethic. You're twisting my words and I think the real issue is you don’t like that I asserted myself about something you thought would never change.” My twists danced again as my neck rolled. Yes, my neck rolled as if I didn’t grow up anywhere near the suburbs of Macon.
“Yes, let’s talk about this new look of yours. Most of them have been cute or quirky enough for you to pull them off but this style tonight ... not the best look.” Wilson’s eyes traveled all over my face. “You're beautiful, Anisa Links. Wearing your hair like that is worse than putting a cheap pleather bra on the front of a Bentley.”
“This is what my hair looks like until I take them down. You couldn’t keep your hands out of my hair the last time I wore my twist out. I thought I’d have to get it done over. Good thing we’re not having sex or you would have totally ruined it, from what you tell me you like to do. Or is that only with girls who relax their hair?” My arms pasted themselves together over my chest.
“You’d risk losing everything we have over a hairstyle. Do you know how many women would kill for a man like me? Some people can appreciate someone stable and supportive.” Wilson’s pinky touched the ring box.
“We don’t have anything to lose if changing my hair is enough to make you question your love for me. What happens when we have children and my body changes, or I get sick? Does that pose a threat to our perfect love too?” Despite my attempt to control my neck, it rolled again.
“Changing your hair because you don’t like relaxers isn’t the same as having a child or getting sick. You don’t like relaxers, why can’t you let Peaches straighten it every week. Problem solved.” Wilson leaned forward. “We can work through this, Anisa. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”
In that moment I realized how wrong something that felt so right could be. “You can’t understand how I feel when you say that which is the real problem, Wilson. When I’m swimming two to three times a week then what ... buy Peaches a Jaguar. No sir.”
“You could learn how to straighten it yourself. Isn’t your hair strong enough to handle more heat when you don’t have a relaxer? I’ve been researching this for you, so we can compromise and move forward. I’m not getting younger, Anisa.” His eyes lowered. “We need to eat this lobster tail before it gets rubbery.”
Lobster tail. This man wanted to propose marriage and make crazy sweet passionate love to me, tonight. My daddy said tail led to tail. He lifted the cover from each of our plates. Everything was such perfect imperfection I wanted to cry, take a picture, scream and cover his face with kisses all at the same time.
“It’s exquisite, Wilson, everything tonight has been perfect.” A sigh escaped from my lips.
“Not as exquisite as you are everyday. I love you so much, Anisa. Tell me we can work through this. Don’t you think it is worth considering my side?” Wilson pulled the box from behind the chiller. A perfect two-carat princess cut diamond in an antique pave setting sparkled in the candlelight.
Deceitful. Manipulative. Controlling. Loving. Supportive. Patient. Jackhole. Wilson’s request that I compromise about my hair and accept his marriage proposal jolted so many emotions, my head and stomach hurt.
“Don’t answer now. Let’s enjoy tonight and you tell me once you’ve had some time to think about everything. I’ll be here.” He placed the ring between our plates.
Dirty. Dirty. Dirty. No girl in her right mind could think straight sitting in front of jewelry, lobster and candlelight. As soon as my stomach settled I planned to eat my lobster, caramel love delight and carry my confused behind home. I needed to be in my right mind when I responded to him.
***
Thirteen total. The number of women with natural hair I counted in my parent's church, today. After all their sanctimonious drivel about not jeopardizing my future they have people all up and through their congregation sporting curly fros and a few sister locks. My feet beat a path to their car so hard after church my father called my entire first middle and last name out in the parking lot. Embarrassed much. Nope. Ten degrees above hot fire. Yep.
“Riveting message by the new youth minister, Anisa. Did you hear him break down that passage? He is very health conscious too.” My father looked at me through the rearview mirror.
“So you guys have a lot of women with natural hair at your church.” I swear my throat cleared on its own.
“Don’t take that tone with us young lady. You never asked about the women at church. I don’t know where they get their hair done.” Mom sat straight up in the passenger seat.
“This is craziness. Wilson asks me to rethink my decision of what to do with my hair for the rest of my life to marry him. You and dad have been lying to me about knowing successful people with natural hair.” I sighed louder than I would have a few months ago, when they supported me instead of my FHF fellowship. That sigh came as close to defiant protest I’d imagined possible as a teen who wanted to see my twenties.
“You’re a new employee trying to build a career. Most of those women run their companies, that aren’t retired. This is different and they don’t wear all those styles you talked about, they have short crop fros. Wilson and no other black man want to be with a woman with no hair.” My mother said.
“Not a normal God fearing one.” Dad snorted.
My godmother used to tell me I’d reach a point my parent's opinions stopped being the fulcrum my life decisions would hinge upon. At the time, I decided she was trying a line for one of her news broadcasts. After the conversation in the car riding home from church I realized, she was right. Two years ago, I’d return to Peaches or a more professional stylist and get my relaxer slapped back onto the months of new growth. I’d force myself to ignore my gut feeling that being natural made the best sense for me, even if it didn’t work for anyone else.
The notion I’d never meet a nice God-fearing young man because I decided to be natural seemed more illogical than Wilson’s ultimatum that I wear my hair straightened for the rest of my life if we were going to be together. Memories of the appetizer, dinner, dessert, and ring kept me from calling him with a firm, hell no. Any and every man that respected a woman’s decision to wait, cooked like a five star master chef and wanted to support her dreams warranted proper consideration.
