A thin line between love and hate: Me and my loctitian..

Loctitian:(Lazy, Humanitycritic definition):1. A person, usually of the female persuasion, who maintains your dreadlocks.(They usually have very Afrocentric things in their shop, you get the feeling that you were tossed into an Eyrkah Badu concert or ass-raped by Africa Bambaataa)

I have to be honest with you, for a blue-blooded heterosexual male like myself who loves sports, titty's, and the asses of women who buy their undergarments exclusively in the Lane Bryant catalog, I feel that I know entirely too much when it comes to being inside of a beauty shop. I guess it started when I was 10 years old, spending hours amongst hours in a beauty-shop chair as a couple of beautician's acted as if they were a fucking Nascar pit-crew fixing tires or some shit, then spending entirely too long under a dryer just so the end result would be me having the sloppiest jheri curl this side of that fictitious "Soul Glow" commercial.(Yes I had a curl, it was my father's idea you no-good motherfuckers!!!) But what happened, especially due to my laziness when it came to maintaining said hairstyle, it resulted in me being one well groomed chubby pre-ejaculator when it came to mane in my post jheri curl days.(My pubic hair is an entirely different story, wild grey hairs mixed with the stubbiest black penis this side of a newborn, looking like a finished cigar in an ashtray.) Hell, I ruined pillows and sheets when I didn't wear that dastardly shower cap on my head while sleeping, and when I didn't lubricate my hair as instructed, the curl became an unmanageable dry Afro that was only good for scrubbing dishes and eating all flies that came within a one foot radius.

But as time went on and the way that I wore my hair changed, I always made sure that my haircut was tighter than a nun's vagina. It's weird though because I'm not vain at all, I dress down most of the time, I've been known to grow my beard to such lengths that my own mother nicknames me "Black Jesus with a thyroid problem". But I have been so on top of keeping my hair looking right that it forced an ex lover to say "If you spent as much time fucking me as you do on your hair, I wouldn't be seriously considering the convent or lesbianism!!!" So for the last 11 plus years, the duration that I have had my dreadlocks, I have spent a great deal of my time in somebody's place of haircare. The first few years were spent in my cousin's shop, a place that specialized in giving women perms and mass amounts of horse hair, so it wouldn't surprise anyone that my locs were started with a comb and some styling gel. The next few years were spent in a shop specializing in natural hair, she was good but her shop was too far from my house, the ghetto ass conversations, religious nut-jobs who voted solely on abortion, and the amount of time she would spend eating, talking to her ignorant girlfriends, and buying knock-off shit from the local hood entrepreneur while she was supposed to be doing my hair made me want to kill everyone in that motherfucker. The past few years I have been going to this chick literally down the block who owns her own hair care business, specializing in dreadlocks and braids. She's good at what she does, and she is pretty cool, so you would think that I wouldn't have any complaints huh?? This is HumanityCritic talking here, a guy who once complained to a girl post coitus "Listen, that was great and all, but the whole "You have the biggest dick in the world" distracted me based on the inaccuracy of it!!", so of course I have complaints.

She plays Jazz interpretation CD's of classic Hip Hop songs: Even though I have received my fair share of lap dances in my day, I never really understood the point of a chick dry humping your leg like a doberman pincher in heat when you could just slide the broad a few bucks and fuck her on the backseat of your car, clutching some rosary beads, praying that the condom that has been in your wallet since high school doesn't break. I once dated a chick who was a strict vegan who cooked me some tofu eggs one morning, an endeavor so pointless that I mixed in real eggs with the fake variety. There is a lesbian that I know who only dates women who look extremely manly, something that disgusted me so much that I told her "Why don't you just fuck me, my cock isn't detachable, I have tits of the male variety, and I can pull off that "I'll beat your ass if you fuck with me!!" look better than any lesbian you can find!!" I went into all of that because my loctitian, god bless her, plays these Jazz CD's that are interpretations of popular Hip Hop songs. Imagine you are sitting there, minding your business, and what you think is A Tribe Called Quests "Check the Rhime" comes on. You are bopping your head, thinking back to what you were doing the year that song came out, and right when Q-Tip is supposed to rhyme a fucking trumpet starts playing?? What the fuck?? That is the equivalent of a chick blowing you, and before you erupt like Mt. Vesuvius she gets up and starts washing the dishes, a totally unsatisfying endeavor. Those Jazz Cd's cover stuff from a lot of great MC's, a fact that inspires me to find the mastermind behind those CD's and strangle the life out of him with a fucking microphone cord.

She doesn't rub my scalp the way I like: I'm not going to lie to you, outside of a chick giving me a spirited mouth-hug and possibly allowing me to eat mac and cheese off of her backside, there is nothing that pitches my tent faster than a chick rubbing my scalp. I'm serious, I used to date this hairstylist who would rub my head so good during a shampooing that after a while I started to turn down intercourse and say, "Hey baby, why don't you just wash my hair and leave??" Some people have fantasies of fucking on a private jet, being the meat in a 2 girl lesbian sandwich, and a host of other shit probably too deviant for this perverted blog to mention. Do you know what my fantasy is?? Being on the business end of a three way with two slutty identical twins, one blowing me and one washing my hair, now THAT'S sexy!! That being said, the chick that maintains my dreadlocks thoroughly washes my hair and I guess I should be happy about that, but she doesn't rub my scalp the way others have in the past. I know, she is my loctitian and not a sex toy, but its getting to the point where I'm about to be honest and openly tell her that it gives me wood, admit that I'm a pervert, and slide her an extra 100 bucks is she looked past my sexual idiosyncrasy.

She has a memory like an elephant: Even though I was late a couple of times and missed an appointment 2 years ago, she always writes me down for a future meeting while saying "Be sure to call if you can't make it!!" Jesus Christ lady, let it go already. Not only that, based on the fact that I met one of her clients a few months ago in her shop, got her number, made some latenight visits to her residence where I left 2.1 seconds after ejaculating, and stopped calling her soon after, my loctitian has refused to hook me up with anyone else. Not only has she refused to introduce me to her clients any more, I have the feeling that she has warned other women about me by the way women in her shop that I don't even know walk past me in disgust while clutching their purses. I went to ask this one fine sister the time and before I could even get the question out she said, "No, no, no!!" I wonder what she has told them, that I'm a career criminal, that I was once in prison for murdering women with dreadlocks, that I have some STD so horrible that scientists were forced to name it after me, or the truth, that I once fucked one of her clients and proceeded to wash my nuts in her sink?? Who knows.

The Dryer: I thought I was pretty tough, I have been jumped more times that I care to remember, I can take a punch, I once fucked an anorexic broad while her exposed ribs gave me stab wounds, I had to deal with my father's death, getting dumped by a woman I thought I'd marry, and dealing with my mother's breast cancer all at the same time, I thought I could deal with anything. That was until I realized that the longer that my hair grew, the longer my black ass would have to stay under that god forsaken dryer. Ladies, I don't see how you do it, because after 45 minutes I'm squirming in my chair, tapping my foot like child who ate too much chocolate, and I feel so hot that I'm convinced that I have lost a significant amount of weight. I'm always pulling the dryer off my head in disgust, and even though my loctitian claims that my hair is still wet, I pay her and leave, not giving a fuck if I catch my death because of it.