I – look – good. That’s with a long long o.
Because I’m now a blonde. A chocolicious, double fudge, pineapple blonde.
And I look good.
Okay, not the Halle Berry good. I’m not delusional.
Or even the Eve good. You think I should add some tattoos?
But I still look good. Cuz I’m a blonde.
Didn’t think blonde hair could make a difference. At least where black folks were concerned. I mean we all know the dumb blonde jokes. And that blondes have more fun. But all that referred to white folks, and a few Latinas. Never Blacks and never ever Asians. It’s the skin tone thing.
But it works. And it’s true. And I know.
Cuz I look good.
Had an awesome, repeat, awesome birthday.
Lots of e-cards (God don’t you love those! I know the Post Office is pissed.). Lots of emails. Lots of well wishes. A few phone cards. A couple of Hallmarks.
I felt loved, loved, loved … and special.
Okay, yes, I sent out an email “reminding” (Chris #1 says soliciting) friends and family – ‘My birthday’s coming up. Send me some love. Don’t dare forget.’ And it worked. And I don’t care. Cuz the fact that everyone said such wonderful things about me (all true), when they could have just sent any old message meant, solicited or not, I’m all-that (at least for one day).
Oh yeah, and some folks at work, even though I’ve been there a short time, said happy birthday too. Wonder how they knew? Could they possibly have noticed the calendar on my desk with August 4th circled in red and the words, ‘ME-ME-ME-ME!’ printed in Times Roman 16 font? I didn’t think it was that prominent. And I certainly didn’t do it to advertise. I guess they just care. Cuz I’m such a lovable fun person.
And I look good.
But I didn’t on my birthday.
Then I looked okay.
But the day after …
I’d carried around my torn out magazine photos of one, Vanessa L. Williams (SAG rules require the L cuz Vanessa Williams (formerly of Melrose Place, and now Soul Food) had the ‘Nessa name first.) and, two, oh what was that girl’s name? Senafi? Shenafi? She played, oh dear, now what is his name? Phillips is his last. Halle’s love interest in Strictly Business? Shoot, I’m not sure I have that right either. What else was he in? Oh yeah, he was Martin, Denise’s husband, on the Cosby Show.
Now what’s his first name?
Anyway, he used to be on the soap General Hospital. Played Rosalind Cash’s grandson. Now that woman could act. And presence ! Such an unfortunate death. Anyway the girl who played his sister is also a model and when I saw her in Essence with the haircut I wanted, I tore that picture out too.
So armed with her and Vanessa L. I headed to the stylist. Now you figured out she was white. Cuz black folks, unless they live in L.A. or New York, go to a beautician or the hairdresser (braiders are exempt).
And why don’t I go to beauticians and hairdressers? Cuz the last time … It was my sister’s beautician. On a Thursday. At 9:30 in the morning. She didn’t finish until 4:00. P.M. In between the shop was full. Folks steadily came in and out. The VCR played movies. The boombox belted tunes. A hot plate cooked up something that no one asked me if wanted some of. And it felt like Saturday nite at the Savoy. I was so tired when I finally got out I took a nap. And wondered – Why were all these folks off on a workday? Of course they probably wondered the same about me, but I was on vacation. Surely not all those black women were on vacation too!
So I vowed never ever ever under any circumstance short of an edict from the Heavenly Father to step foot in a black beauty shop unless the hairdresser knew me personally. Cuz see when they know you, and they know you’ll probably come back, you get treated a whole lot better. Not that I was mistreated. It was just a disrespect of time. My time. Something my hairdressers never did. Cuz I tipped. When they started on my head, they did not touch another soul. And I was in and out usually within 90, not 390, minutes!
I digress.
But I still look good.
So my new hometown stylists hooked me up.
I remember my first visit to them. I was desperate. Hadn’t had my hair done since I took my braids out – 3 months prior. The ‘fro was old. The ends ragged. But my hometown has one black stylist. Used to be Ms. Virginia. But she’s long gone – dead, not moved. Now it’s – I’m not going to say the name cuz that’s not fair. And I’m sure he’s good. Everybody goes to him. But I didn’t want another going to church on Sunday hairstyle that looks like everybody else’s on the usher board. The usher board’s not like the choir cuz the latter always has some folks who got to be different, and wild. You know who I mean. You probably thought of two or three people right off the bat. Their hair is so crimped and swirled and curled and wide and high and hard (you need a lot of hair spray or plaster of paris to hold those ends) you know they slept standing up for fear the shellacking would come down. And they always make sure they stand in the front row or behind a really short person cuz you got to see their hair. With choirs it’s all about hair cuz they can’t show off their clothes – they’re under robes.
Anyway, when I went to the store – again, black folks go to the store. You other people go to the supermarket. And country folks go to the corner. That’s what they say, “I’m going to the corner (everybody knows what they mean). You want something?” And you give them your list.
So I went to the store and this girl had my hairstyle (not this one, another one). And I said, “Who did your hair?” Entourage. New place. And they were able to see me that day. (It’s a small town. Hel=lo !)
I have to admit I had a little trepidation since the last time a non-black person touched my hair she burnt it out. Overprocessed that relaxer trying to watch General Hospital. See how things come full circle?
But I was desperate.
And Carrie, my stylist, hooked me up.
And I looked good.
Not as good as now. But more than good enough.
So I was ready to get the real hook up. And I did. The day after my birthday.
And I look real good.
And I didn’t even have to tell most folks, cuz they noticed, and told me. Straight away.
Which was strange. I’d worked with these folks for 3 ½ weeks. Got a few nods. An occasional smile. But Tuesday, the day after my birthday, I was all that (which I didn’t think was much) but obviously was much more.
Folks stopped by my cubicle and said –‘Like your hair.’
In the bathroom it was – ‘That looks so nice.’
Men who hadn’t given me a second glance, or even thought to look, were doing triple takes and smiling as I strolled down the hall. Where were they yesterday, last week? Obviously looking elsewhere. But now looking at me…
Cuz I looked good.
All those blue feelings from being another year old (after 30 you’re not older, you’re just old) were still present. The momentary depression felt when my stylist Melissa (Carrie supervised cuz she was booked the day I wanted to come in), fresh out of beauty school said I think my mom went to school with you. Dag. The fleeting sadness remembering last year was less cards but more sex. Dag dag. But all gone.
Cuz I looked good.
Oh what those blond streaks can do. (You didn’t think I highlighted (black folks dye) my whole head, did you?)
I look good.
Not fyn (Chris #2 just invented that spelling). But that’s coming. Need a few more streaks.
It’s one step at a time.
One slow step. Old folk don’t move fast. Old folk don’t move too often, period.
But I look good.
Whatever speed I’m going.
I loved my birthday.
Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me, happy birthday Ms. Fyn to be, happy birthday to me.
I look good.
