Our differences

So I went to my hair place the other day to get my her did or weave done, whichever you prefer. First of all, I hate it there. It’s not the place itself, or the people working there, or even the people getting their hair done, its the looks. For those of you who don’t know or haven’t realized, I am black. Since I am black, I have what is commonly known as black people hair. The non-black people may not know what I mean when I use this term, but all the people with black hair know what’s up. 

Let me explain black people hair. It’s nappy, coarse, thick, tangly, pouffy, in short, pretty much everything you don;t want your hair to be. It sucks. Its so hard to take care of and it never looks the way you want it to. This is why I go to my hair place, because they can idx this problem and give me better hair. 

When I do go there, I get what is known as a relaxer. Its a perm, but just the opposite. They put a really harsh chemical on my hair, and voila, I have white people hair, or something close to it. This is a good think, I like it. My problem is the way people look at me. Three days before my relaxer, due to the extreme chemicals, I can not wash it or straiten it. This sucks because it is necessary for me to flat iron my hair daily so it doesn’t look like poop. So for three days I walk around with black people hair, which sucks. What sucks even more is when I am sitting in the chair, my hair being combed out into what is essentially an afro and noticing all the people watching me. What makes it even worse is that the place I go is coincidentally the same place all the rich, white women and preppy teenage girls go too. I have never seen another black person there. 

I can’t say I blame their staring. I just really hate being the one they stare at. I want to scream to them, “I’m black, what are you expecting?!?! but I am able to refrain. Like I said before, the place is full of all this primly, overdone people who get their hair done once a week, there eyebrows done twice a week, and their nails done daily. I am not a girl. I mean I am in the biological sense, but it about stops there. As if my black hair wasn’t enough to make me feel bad, I have to spend three hours with these people who are total girls. I feel so out of place. I don’t want to get my eyebrows waxed or my nails done or any of that stuff, but if you want to fit in with these people, that’s what it takes. And they know I shouldn’t be here, you can see it in the way they look at my bushy brows, nasty nails, and dissimilar do. 

I guess my moral of this tale was that it’s all fine and dandy to be different, until you actually are. We as a society say that its our differences that bring us together, but webster, along with life, suggest otherwise. 

Peace.