The Nappy Diatribe

Living with Dreadlocks..

Posted 03/27/2009 at 5:59 PM  |  3 comment/s

Not for nothing, but if I could sum up my 15 years of having dreadlocks into a garden variety television advertisement, it would undoubtedly play just like one of those Herpes medication commercials your average boob tube aficionado would immediately recognize. Just image this:

*The camera focuses in on a picturesque couple with natural hair flowing from beneath their respective helmets, as they lovingly steal glances while taking a rather scenic bike ride together* - *The next scene is that of a dread-locked husband and wife team who look as if they were plucked straight out of Central casting, effortlessly climbing a mountain only to momentarily stop half way up to slowly take in the view* - *The last scene is that of a handsome duo having the time of their lives, navigating their raft in some pretty turbulent waters as their well manicured matted coils of hair occasionally impede their vision.*

Similar to the aforementioned commercial that advertises Herpes outbreak suppression medication, people will not only be openly wondering what in the fuck outdoors activities have to do with the topic at hand - but the monotone, fast talking "Disclaimer guy" at the end will be the scariest part of my commercial as well:

*Disclaimer Guy* - "Simply having dreadlocks, especially if you don't have the temperament needed to appropriately deal with the outside ignorance that comes with it - can have some debilitating side effects that will crush your feeble little world. Listen, this is not a motherfucking game people. Those side effects include: Belittling smirks, exhaustive head shaking, condescending sarcasm, stern warnings, openly questioning whether someone is mentally disabled or not, cursing out strangers, threatening to beat up a woman's boyfriend because of HER ignorance, putting sleeper holds on people, administering right hooks, left upper-cuts, right jabs, headbutts, Steven Segal influenced clotheslines, forceful kicks to the sternum, table slams, putting someone in a figure four leg-lock in the middle of a crowded supermarket. You get the picture. Please seek the opinion of your local loctition, or friend that has had dreadlocks for the better part of a decade - before getting dreadlocks yourself."

To be totally honest, when I first decided to lock my hair it had absolutely nothing to do with spirituality or some mellow dramatic sentiment usually expressed in a garden variety spoken word poet's hacky ass "Love Jones" retread. I simply decided to lock my hair after a girl that I was dating almost pulled a bicep trying to get a pick through an extremely matted Afro I was proudly sporting for some reason. I remember her telling me: "You might as well let me twist it up for you, you're on the verge of having a dreadlocked Afro anyways". So 15 years and 4 girlfriends later, I find that having sex or simply going to the bathroom requires some serious pre-gaming because of the length of my hair - and personally, despite of the introduction to this piece, I wouldn't have it any other way. But there are some aspects to having dreadlocks that have seriously tested my overall resolve. Here are a few.

"Hey man, do you have any weed on you?": Even though I occasionally partake in the smoking of local horticulture, the fact that people assume that I'm a salesman of said greenery never stops getting insulting - its just as bad as the time the owner of the local Chinese food restaurant that I frequent clumsily assumed that I wanted to order chicken just because of the color of my skin.(Granted, after a 10 minute self righteous rant about stereotypes - the elderly Chinese man calmly reminded me that I usually get chicken. Oh.) Regardless the venue, concert to post office, nightclub to wake - more times than not some person will take it upon themselves to ask "Hey man, are you holding?" Which is frustrating on two levels: The mere fact that too many Bob Marley records has given people the courage to publicly bank on their demeaning assumptions - and just imagine all the "liquor and lap-dance" money I could be swimming in if I actually sold weed. I wonder if blond, lanky white guys with silent rotund friends encounter the same problems?

"This might sound like a stupid question, but.." As someone who commonly begins statements with phrases like, "I'm not trying to be a dick but.." and then proceeds to be an insufferable prick - I always pay keen attention and take complete stock in people's prefaces. Questions like "Do you wash your hair?" - "Does it get wet?" - "Can you comb that out?" - "Doesn't that get hot in the summer?" - "Is that all your hair?" - are usually prefaced with "..this might sound like a stupid question." Listen, I know that some people mean no harm, the are just clueless souls who just don't know any better. I feel that. But then again, I'd never question Monica Lewinsky about blowing Bill in the Oval Office, mainly because I have a pretty good feeling that she's tired of being asked about it. There is this British woman who frequents my bar who always gets asked the most asinine questions imaginable solely because her accent, when that happens I usually bend over to whisper into her ear "Welcome to world!"

Gorilla tactics perpetrated by strangers: I think I'm going to go on Craigslist to inquire about the services of a female bodyguard. I mean, I can defend myself just fine - but because I don't lay a hand on a woman unless its a consensual slap on the ass mid-coitus while "Welcome to the Terrordome" plays in the background - I need a chick in my employ who will mercilessly chin check other women who take it upon themselves to recklessly grab my hair like they have misplaced their cerebellum. I used to let it slide if the woman was cute, only giving her a mild dressing down before trying to talk her into emotionless 4 minute sex with a struggling writer - now I give pretty women the exact same vitriol of contempt that I give beastly broads who decide to tug on my matted mane. I can't tell you how many women, I'm guessing to see if my hair was real or not, simply took a handful of my hair and yanked it like one of those church bells you see in old westerns. To add insult to injury, afterwords they usually just look at you to await your reaction. Fucking weird man. The other night, after a woman pulled my hair and then proceeded to ask if it bothered me or not - I immediately responded "Put it this way, if you were a man you'd be collecting your fucking teeth right now!" Yeah, I need to hire a female thug. Any takers?

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