One of the most memorable girlfriend's that I've ever had, outside of the one that needed me to shove a string of door-knocker sized beads in her ass for her to achieve a proper climax - was a chick named Debi, a black woman so militant that at times she made Louis Farrakhan seem like Sammy Davis Jr. I mean, I have some pretty militant views myself, but when she started blaming precipitation and random football scores as government plights against the black man, it became increasingly difficult for me to contain my eye-rolls. Every white woman that I knew, even casually, was accused by her of trying to satisfy their deepest and darkest desires by having a "big black buck around" - and she took it upon herself to question the loyalty of my Caucasian friends whenever the opportunity presented itself, I appreciated the concern and all but I was losing white friends faster than O.J Simpson circa 94'. Sure she was the epitome of a buzz kill, but Debi sort of intrigued me - I mean, what other opportunity would I ever get to have passionate sex to taped Huey P Newton speeches and to tell "..and then I took off her army fatigues and proceeded to fuck the shit out of her" stories to tell my closest friends? But besides her penchant for dressing up like Pam Greer in those blaxploitation flicks and putting me on the business end of rather spirited mouth-hugs after I spouted some militant ideology that I probably didn't believe myself - I had to let her ass go because even though she's the only woman that has ever let me penetrate her while "Welcome to the Terrordome" was playing, the last thing I wanted was her fanatical beliefs to rub off on me.
Listen, I believe the standard theories that your average, garden variety black person holds - like AIDS was invented to wipe out black people, the second shooter theory, the government had Malcolm X and Martin Luther King Jr killed, Clearchannel and Viacom's main purpose is to destroy the black population at all costs via criminally bad Hip Hop. Pretty standard stuff really, nothing too extreme. But recently, when I started to think of all the shabby hair-care products that I've fallen victim to over the last 20+ years - it makes me want to reunite with Debi and attend meetings at undisclosed locations where the people in attendance wear nothing but black military uniforms, because its this writers humble opinion that black hair care products were designed to eliminate black folks.
Jheri Curl Activator: Yes, I had a jheri curl - even though I'm overwhelmingly candid about my sexual shortcomings on this blog and my well publicized habit of paying for women with loose orifices off of craigslist, admitting to having a particular hairstyle more than 20 years ago is more difficult than coming clean about an MC Hammer album purchase. It was my old man's idea, he paid top dollar so me and my older brother could have heads that looked as if we shampooed with motor oil - not for nothing, but with all the curlers and the mass amounts of time spent under a hair dryer, I know entirely too much about the inner workings of a beauty salon for a straight male who has a Serena Williams paparazzi crotch shot as my screen saver. Not that it matters, since the Jheri curl will never be as popular as it once was - but the key to maintaining said hairstyle is constant upkeep, but as a 10 year old boy with the sole agenda of playing outside, keeping up a hairstyle was the furthest thing from my mind. Besides, that activator that I was supposed to put in my hair was disastrous - it blinded you if it got into your eyes, it ruined pillow-cases and bedsheets if you didn't cover it up, and the shit stayed in your clothes as if the bastards who invented that hairstyle had their own fragrance company.
So after a few weeks of neglect, as my hair got so dry that my dear mother described my mane as looking like "Negro tumbleweeds" - she proceeded to wake me up early one Saturday morning and aggressively shave my hair like a new recruit in a Vietnam movie. You know what, I come from a loving two parent home, my mother wasn't on drugs when she had me, and Virginia Beach has to be the furthest thing from a ghetto - so how do you explain my affection for throat-chopping bastards until they can't breath and mercilessly going through the defeated gentleman's pockets on some "High School Bully" shit? It had to be the activator, because seriously - I haven't been right since.
Beeswax: When I first decided to grow dreadlocks more than a decade ago, my cousin eagerly wanted to be the person who introduced me to a life of people asking me if I sold weed every other day - based on him being a hair stylist and owning his own hair salon in my town. For the longest time I resisted, simply because he was gay - correction, he was gayer than a tree full of parakeets who only acted like a straight man when he was around me. I didn't care what he did with his personal time, but if I had to be forced to sit in a rather uncomfortable chair for three hours, I didn't want an obviously gay guy talking about all the women he was fucking to serve as the soundtrack to my first dreadlock experience. But at the end of the day I accepted his offer, not only because I realized that he needed his own time to come out of the closet - but because my cousin aka "Mcgreevey" was offering to do it for virtually nothing. I guess you get what you pay for, sure he did a miraculous job - but he used a substance called beeswax to twist my hair, a choice that I would come to loathe in the subsequent years. Not only has it caused me to lose a few locks, but the chalky residue that it left made it look like the Stay-puff marshmallow man ejaculated on the tips of my hair. Thank god for all the "coffee shop, incense burning, watching "Love Jones" on a loop" chicks that I've slept with over the years - they've rectified that problem.
Magic Shave: Back before I rocked the "homeless disheveled" look, a beard so wild and unmanageable that I'd probably shed a tear if I ever put a comb through it - I took it upon myself to be clean shaven every day. Besides, a girlfriend that I was with at the time claimed that it felt like she was being eaten out by a big piece of Velcro whenever I had the tiniest bit of stubble on my face during those rather intimate moments. Of course this causeed a problem for me, because like many black men who shave on a regular basis will tell you - the bumps that would develop from doing so weren't exactly sexy, if those same bumps appeared on my lips you'd probably think that I spent a passionate weekend with Courtney Love. That's when I was introduced to "Magic Shave", a product that came in a medicine smelling, white powdery form - what you would do is add a pinch or two to some water, mix, then smear the substance on the part of your face that you didn't want hair to be. It worked, after waiting a few moments and scraping the dried substance off of course - but not only was the unwanted hair removed, but so was some of your fucking skin. I'm serious, that shit was toxic - I'd bet you some serious money that that was the same substance used remove paint off bumpers or to break down disposed bodies for mobsters. Its a conspiracy I tell you!!
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