|That women did not come with this hair.|
There were a lot of red flags from the beginning of this relationship. In fact, on the first day, I completely missed the Red Army marching by with 6,000 red flags, tanks with red flags, missiles with red flags, helicopters with red flags - even 46,000 5 year-old Chinese factory workers on bicycles waving tiny red flags. ... All got by me ...
Rule number one, when selecting a prospective companion - Don't date the person that supplies your stoner friend his drugs. People with access to copious amounts of drugs either use copious amounts of drugs or know people who use and/or sell copious amounts of drugs and those people usually have copious amounts of guns and a fair amount of prison or jail time on their resumes. All of the above applied here.
Another big red flag, she had 10 kids. All of them were living with their father or another relative in California. That really wasn't a red flag, that was more like a solar flare. But, I wore Maui Jim sunglasses and must have missed it.
Now, at the time we met, she was clean - she did have a problem with crack and meth in the past. But at the time, she didn't smoke weed, shoot up, tweak, drink or smoke cigarettes. She also did some part-time prostitution. She wasn't a good prostitute. She just lured Mexican guys into dropping their pants so she could steal their wallets or their cash rolls and run while their pants were around their ankles.
Most Mexicans didn't trust the banking system, so they tended to carry all of their cash on them or a big wad in their pocket and the rest was in a sock drawer at home. So, basically, I was dating a Crack Ho Con Artist. (I had no idea I would actually get a chance to walk on the red carpet and see all those red banners - and it wasn't even the Oscars).
She was actually a really nice person. Kind. Spoke fluent Spanish. Had a good way with people. Cooked well. Read the Bible. Said prayers every night. She loved to read and watch movies. Didn't know squat about housecleaning. Was freaky in the bedroom. (That made the cleaning thing less important.)
She was a typical woman - had to have clothes. Fortunately, she was from the hood and shopped at all of the discount places where the poor people shopped. For $50 she could get a ton of clothes; unlike my last wife who turned her nose up at the average department store and preferred Nordstrom and Neiman Marcus. (Expensive!!!!)
White women use makeup, but black women WEAR makeup. In fact, they coat themselves in makeup. We were always at Shonell's Beauty Supply or Laqueesha's Beauty Barn or whatever the places were called. And the body lotion. I should have looked into buying that stuff in drums - she went through a lot.
Now, the next thing was my real lesson in black women. Most black women have messed up hair. NOt all. Some have absolutely stunning hair and they are considered very lucky. But problems with African-American women's hair was a regular topic on Oprah, The Tyra Show or Wendy Williams. Black hair is brittle. It breaks off, so they can't do a lot with it. Rain, Oh Sweet Jesus, don't let it rain on a black woman's head. They freak out. They'll stick their head up your ass, just to keep it out of the rain. As a result, a lot of black women buy wigs, extensions and hair pieces. I soon found out that black women don't come with their own hair. You have to buy it, or they be bald.
There are two types of hair - the synthetic kind and real hair. Number one is relatively cheap. Number two costs a fortune and makes you shit when you get the bill - that's why it's number two.
Opting for the synthetic hair is not a bargain either, because it doesn't last. It has to be replaced all the time - which over time may cost more than real hair. That's why it's number one - you're pissing away hair all the time.
Unlike men, where we have a hairstyle and we wear our hair the same way every day. Black women don't like to look the same way two days in a row. That equates to more hair. And they have to have hair for special occasions, weekends, shopping, buying groceries, dancing, and lounging hair - for watching TV. Can't be ONE hair. Gotta be 50 hair. Our closet looked like I was dating a beaver trapper. There were pelts of all different shapes, lengths and colors in there. Curls, no curls, partial curls, half curls, tight curls, big curls - I was happy with ONE hair. Just ONE. Not her.
That's why when I see a black woman with gorgeous hair, I'll compliment her and ask, "Is that all you?" All the time they say, "Don't I wish." So we know she got a weave or a wig or the hair off her boyfriend's back goin' on.
I saw a beautiful black girl at the grocery store the other day. She had that big wide Diana Ross thing goin' on. It was fake.
What was even weirder. Considering her natural hair was very short and nappy and she could barely make a one inch ponytail in the back, she bought bottles and bottles of shampoo and conditioner. Six years later, I'm still going through the stuff.
I guess when you've been in jail and prison, hygiene products are a big deal. They were like gold to her.
Eventually, my girlfriend fell off the wagon and started up with the tweaking. Then, she got suicidal and tried to commit suicide by eating a bottle of Flintstone Vitamins. She peed a rainbow for two days and pooped out a couple Pebbles. She had to go.
There was an entire box of hair when I moved her back to the hood. A bear rug didn't have that much fur.
We had fun and she was really interesting for a while. I got a crash course in black women. And like they say, "Once you go black, you'll never go back." That's true. I'm gay now.
But the most surprising thing in our relationship was to find out that not all black women come with their own hair. And if you plan on keepin' da ho, to the hair store you will go.
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