I have gone back and forth for about a year about loc’n my hair again but the fear of commitment has stopped me. The thing that keeps popping in my head is whether or not I want to be viewed (as in at my funeral) with locs. lol morbid I know, but I finally took the leap and as I am swyping this post on my galaxy phone I am sitting in the chair getting my locs started. here we go.
(wait for it)
And 4 hours later- I’m back. I am not pleased. My hair is crunchy but she swears that it will soften up in a day or two. My locs look like skinny starter braids. Now here’s where I take the blame. I didn’t specify how large or small I wanted my locs to be but I ASSUMED (remember what they said about that word in grade school?) that based on my last experience with her that she knew I did not want them small as the tip on a felt tip pin. Wheretheydothatat? So I didn’t state my preference and her dingy ass didn’t ask. She simply read the expression on my face when I looked in the mirror to mean that I.AM.PISSED (as in I Am Legend). It was that damn serious.
The next thing out of my mouth was: “I look like a bald-headed boy. Let me put my earrings back on so that I can go home and re-do my hair.” My audience in the salon was watching. They were listening to her apologize which sounded more like an apology from someone who intentionally screwed your head up. You know that type of *giggle* “I’m sorry” *giggle*. Yeah that bullshit.
A margarita later and a glass of wine in my hand, I’m chilling. The dude is about to make some key lime pie martinis and then we will likely undertake a game or two of dominoes and other grown folks games. (Yeah, catch up on your way home.)
But first- I have to finish sitting under this hot ass dryer.