Usually when some famous person finally decides to do away with their trademark dreadlocks that people have always closely identify them with, they always take it upon themselves to concoct an explanation right out of some Hippie-handbook - equating a simple haircut to a spiritual "rebirth" or "cleansing", making it seem that a simple swipe of the clippers is akin to a sacred tribal ceremony or some shit. I'm starting to think that these ham-fisted explanations started with Lenny Kravitz, was he the one that said that he symbolically had his dreadlocks detached from his scalp in the ocean or was he the one who said some nonsense about hyperventilating while his daughter and ex-wife cut them off?(I'm not sure) Not for nothing, but save the escalated melodrama for Spanish language soap operas motherfucker, after 13 years of growing a mane that prompts total strangers to boldly ask me "Where's the weed at?" - I'm at a place now where if I decide to say "fuck it" and shave my head with a fluidity only seen by sheep shearers, there won't be any incense burning in the background, and no New Orleans-styled Jazz processions strolling through my living room marking the untimely demise of my flowing mane.
It's not like my hair won't be missed if I ever do decide to cut it all off, I mean, its kind of hard not to miss something that you have to routinely adjust every time you defecate - besides, its my only mark of distinction outside of my violent outbursts and my slight stutter. Its also a great conversation starter for low self-esteem having women who happen to be interested in a chubby writer with so many intimacy issues that he's openly considering building a "glory-hole" in his bedroom - I usually find myself clumsily thrusting on top of these women, translating their brain-busting eye-rolls to mean "..only if the size of your cock was a fraction of the length of your hair - by the way, why is this scumbag fucking me to "Fight The Power" anyways?" That being said, here are few reasons why I've considered cutting off all my air, hoping to one day audition for the lead role in the movie adaptation of the popular television series "A Man Called Hawk".
I am Joe Pesci in "Goodfellas": When I was a teenager, years before the thought of locking my hair ever ran through my feeble little mind, I went to a local teen club with my homeboys and saw a kid around my age get mercilessly stomped the fuck out by a group of local ruffians - the one thing that sticks out about that particular mauling is how they savagely ripped out his dreadlocks from the root as if they were desperately trying to start an old lawnmower. So when I finally decided to grow dreadlocks I'd occasionally think about that December night, thinking of it more often than not the longer my hair grew, and when the tips of my hair gently stroked my shoulders I had to confront a sobering reality - that I would have to end fights rather quickly based on most men's penchant for being bitches and pulling hair during an altercation. The days of me standing toe to toe with some asshole in a bar parking lot was over, attempting to publicly exhibit my punishing body blows and my effective 52 hand block technique was replaced with throat-chops, smashing bottles of beer over someones head - not to mention my habit of hitting grown men in the back with bar-chairs as if my job had me wearing constricting tights 89.9% of the year.
Back-handed compliments: I'm beginning to think that receiving back-handed compliments is a black person's "rite of passage" in this country - especially if you are an African American who grew up amongst a slew of socially retarded white folks, if I had a dime for every time I heard "You are pretty cool for a black guy" and "Wow, you are so articulate - were you adopted by white parents?" I'd probably have enough money to buy most third world country's with change left over by now. Being a grizzled veteran when it comes to pointing out the subtlest forms of racism, you can just imagine how upset I was with myself when I realized that I have been letting things effortlessly get past me as if I was an armless soccer goalie for the better part of a decade - people who have time and time again shamelessly approached me and gushed over how "clean" and "neat" my hair was. It took me a while to realize that this wasn't exactly a compliment, the same way someone praising my clear diction with a fascinated look on their face wasn't exactly complimentary either - it soon dawned on me that a remark of that variety was also a condemnation of dreadlocks as a whole.
Groundhog Day: Although I'm fully aware that there's no way a total stranger would know my intricate back-story like I was a well known John Grisham novel, even though my extensive reputation of unprovoked violence and sodomizing women on bathroom floors proceeds me - I still get tired answering the same fucking questions about my dreadlocks? "How man years have you been growing them?" "Don't they get hot in the summer time?" "Aren't they heavy?" A couple of years ago I had these business-size cards made up with "Frequently asked questions" about my hair, whenever someone would inquire about my locks at some watering-hole I'd just shove that card in their face - but my friends got together and it was a consensus, doing so made me look like an even bigger dick than I already am.(If that was even possible)
Overly aggressive women:Sometimes, just sometimes, a degenerate bastard like myself who has a habit of granting women signatures of ejaculate on their naked backs post-coitus - longs for a meaningful relationship. Sure, the companionship seems nice, her completing my "I'll kick your fucking ass buddy" sentence while we are at a bar is the epitome of romantic - and the thought of having receipt-less ass on a steady basis is not only good for my self-esteem but it would also do wonders for my wallet. But the main reason a girlfriend would be great, outside of all the other reasons I've already listed - is to publicly thwart other females who are in the habit of randomly tugging my hair like we were in fucking kindergarten. I mean, women who ask to touch my hair first, no problem - but I couldn't tell you how many times my head has been suddenly yanked backwards by some manner-less harlot. If a dude did it I could just punch him, kick him in the sternum, even "sweep the leg" on some "Karate Kid" shit - but whenever a female does it the best that I can conjure up is a "Have you lost your fucking mind?" look on my face. I figure having a girlfriend around would nip that shit in the bud.