In dread anticipation: So, yeah, trustafarians. And hair, too.

I tell myself that it’s different this time. The first time an ex (a Jamerican, ‘tho you didn’t ask ;/]) suggested I grow my hair out and stop going to that barbershop on 14th Street, I wasn’t interested. I liked the short-sharp-shock, close-cropped cut I had. But I tried it, started to like it and got into getting it tended at east-of-Lake-Merritt shops like Oh, My Nappy Hair! and Nappy or Not. But after two and a half years, I started feeling like a hair farmer — like what was coming out of my scalp wasn’t connected to me. So I went clean, and started hitting the barber’s again (I got married wearing a box fade).

I haven’t cut it since December 1999. I don’t expect I will for a good long while, if ever. (I did just get my driver’s license photo done. I’m rockin’ the one tendril/strand/stalk of hair angling straight up from my scalp. Part Buckwheat, part Alfalfa. grrr)

It makes more sense to me now, who I am and what’s happening to me. It’s not about a significant other’s idea, a desire to conform to a standard or expectation or even some of the quasi-mystical or pseudo-Rasta stuff you may hear falling out of certain people’s mouths.

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