Picture it. Dallas, 2010 on a cloudy and muggy June morning. A young woman with a hot mess of a bird’s nest on top of her head walks up to me, and in a deeper than Barry White’s voice, she asks me ”Who does your hair?” Her accent sends out a microburst of Russia.
Of course, I am flattered, as my extensions are soon to expire and my quirky mixed girl style is slowly transitioning in to the Baby Jane, where my curls creepily stay still like old Barbie doll hair.
I look at my desk, mounds of paper piling up, my phone ringing off the hook with clients asking the same obvious questions day after day, then saying things like,”Oh, that’s right. I’m such an idiot! Hah. Sorry to bother you!”
Really? They aren’t sorry at all. They believe my direct line is for their personal use so I can bail them out of a stupid mistake that they don’t want their bosses or clients to find out about. Just another day at Big Huge Bank of Nunya.
Anyway, I took a sip of my coffee, which at that time felt like a warm cup of hug. I don’t drink, so there is no after work martini for me. My coffee is the drink that puts me back on track, and boy you wouldn’t like me if I don’t get it in the morning. There have been times where my husband drove like his grandmother to get me to work, sacrificing Starbucks on the way leaving me a choice of break-room sludge or nothing. I wouldn’t dare touch the coffee in the break room. Not after seeing Busted and Disgusted, that creepy TV show that just gives us all more stuff to worry about while eating in our day to day environment. Just the thought of one of our many disgruntled workers peeing in the Joe or something worse keeps me from trying the coffee. I ended up going a whole six hours, head ache and all, without my coffee. I think that was the day I made a bee line for the parking lot exit, cutting off one of my co-workers, who has been giving me stink-eye ever since.
Twelve instant messages, five files and twenty one sips later, I see Deep Voice, purposely walking by my desk several times before I notice MY hair on her head! She just ran out and bought the closest thing she could find to my weave! On top of that, she was wearing it all wrong. She didn't even bother blending the faux hair with the real hair. She just kind of threw it together even thought the sleek and shiny new hair contrasted with her dull and frizzy mane. She didn't seem to mind that you could see all of the tracks. So wrong. Tracks and bonds that show are a no-go. An absolute don’t.
She kept walking past my desk and flicking it off her shoulder like a little black girl that is obessed with her newly permed hair. I remember my first hair relaxer, so I have been through that phase, where I couldn't beleive my hair actually moved and swung with the breeze(at least until the new growth came in. At that point, I was back to looking like Janet Jackson when she was Penny on Good Times. Thanks to my mother’s lack of maintenance skills, as she had good hair, and didn’tunderstand my nap-factor, my locks didn’t even make it a week before they began to look like shredded wood.)
Twelve instant messages, five files and twenty one sips later, I see Deep Voice, purposely walking by my desk several times before I notice MY hair on her head! She just ran out and bought the closest thing she could find to my weave! On top of that, she was wearing it all wrong. She didn't even bother blending the faux hair with the real hair. She just kind of threw it together even thought the sleek and shiny new hair contrasted with her dull and frizzy mane. She didn't seem to mind that you could see all of the tracks. So wrong. Tracks and bonds that show are a no-go. An absolute don’t.
She kept walking past my desk and flicking it off her shoulder like a little black girl that is obessed with her newly permed hair. I remember my first hair relaxer, so I have been through that phase, where I couldn't beleive my hair actually moved and swung with the breeze(at least until the new growth came in. At that point, I was back to looking like Janet Jackson when she was Penny on Good Times. Thanks to my mother’s lack of maintenance skills, as she had good hair, and didn’tunderstand my nap-factor, my locks didn’t even make it a week before they began to look like shredded wood.)
Moving on; this heifer was prancing around the office, new outfit, my hair and way too much make-up on totally attempting to outdo my Do! Now, this may be immature, but no matter how old or how classy you think you are, a girl/lady/woman/elder/duchess/queen/empress/Condoleezza Rice never takes it lightly when a woman steals her style, then attempts to make it better. Even if they don’t succeed at making it better. Look, I don’t care who you are, the little child in you will moonwalk its way into your head causing you to get extremely annoyed. Now, nothing is more flattering than imitation, right? However, that is only if the imitation is a gesture of a compliment, not a result of spying on someone’s digs, then duplicating and pretending it was your own! I will be straightening my hair, or cutting it all off ala Halle Berry cirque Boomerang. Hah! I would like to see you pull that one off, Miss Barrywhite!
Then a small, still voice says,” Is it really that serious? I mean, what is the matter with you? Are you on something? May be we should skip the coffee today. “
And I realize, I was thinking out loud, and the voice is real. It was my husband, who on many occasions has caught and rescued me from my vivid daydreams before I cross over into insanity.
LMFAO!!!! You have done it again....Lovin it.
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