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Unpacking BaggageJust going through my luggage, clearing out some things to make way for enlightenment Saturday, September 30, 2006A Waste of Good Hair On any given Sunday during my youth, my grandmother and great aunts might be heard giving commentary about a little girl or grown assed woman whose hair wasn't quite right. Don't get me wrong. The ladies in my family aren't all blessed with the finest grades of hair. They're of varying lengths, ranging in grade from straight to nappy and texture from silky to coarse. The oldest was reputed to have hair so thick and coarse "if you tried to run your fingers through it, you'd pull back bloody nubs." My grandmother actually has both. She attributes the coarse grade in the top of her head to her mother and the soft, silky grade in back to her father. His mama was indian, so I'm told. See... Black girls didn't just start using that "half indian" lie. And I'm not calling my grandmama and 'nem liars, but the closest some of these "half indian" sisters have come to a Native American is a casino in Connecticut, but I digress. Since moving to the DC metropolitan area, I haven't failed to see hair lying on the ground. At first I was disturbed because my family's disposal of locks caught in the comb was a dark, mysterious thing fueled by superstition. It was believed that if someone "got a hold to" some of your hair they could "mess with you." I've since discovered, through visual inspection, that the hair I've been stumbling upon carries no human DNA, but probably came packaged in a cellophane wrapper. I have reached this conclusion because I've seen it hanging in the dollar store, which could account for why someone would be apt to leave it lying in the street. It's like a sister grew tired of her weave over the course of the day or realized how fake it looked and just snatched it out, leaving it where it fell. I'm certainly not saying that every woman [and a few men] in the area swears by synthetic supplements. I certainly haven't reached that conclusion through observation. It's not like my trip to New Orleans years ago, when I noticed that a lot of the women I encountered bore the scar of a knife wound somewhere on her face, especially the pretty ones. It was like the ugly heifers decided that they would level the playing field. However, I have seen enough heads, sporting braids that cover the full spectrum of color to know that these girls buy as much hair as they grow. The amounts that I stumble upon DAILY also let me know that they change it as frequently as their underwear... maybe more so. Even with the full knowledge that the hair I happen upon is most likely fake, I'm still disturbed. I have to wonder how this "hair" has come to find it's way to the ground and none of the scenarios are as simple as a sister just got tired of wearing something on which someone may have once placed a wager. My mind immediately screams CATFIGHT in a neighborhood where most problems are solved by bitchslap. I used to give women more credit for being... well... ladies. I grew up in an era with women who had respect for the human head. The hair was always a last resort and you had better finish the fight. I have an aunt who would pull off her wig before laying a bitch low. That kind of restraint, respect and good sense has gone the way of bamboo earrings... Oh wait! They're back. Okay it's gone the way of first-time grandmothers over 50. Today's girls immediately go for the hair because they know a sister just spent 12 hours sitting on the floor between Shalala's legs, while she smoked a blunt and worked out those purple microbraids. I wax nostaglic on Friday nights when the house was just a confusion of smells. Every eye on the stove was working. Fish fried on one. Grits boiled on another. The hot comb heated on yet another and the marcel rods smoked on another as the heat burned off the excess Ultra Sheen or DAX pomade. Your auntie sat in a straight-backed chair by the stove, holding her ear saying, "Bitch, if you burn me I'm gon' whip your ass!" I actually have a tear in my eye.  
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