"Don't Pet the 'Fro" T-shirts Are Here

The babies have been born...

I've launched the "Don't Pet the 'Fro" T-shirts. I've gone through quite a few samples and I will continue to perfect and tweak the design (all while not allowing my inner perfectionist to slow the process). Visit my Wazala shop to order your t-shirt or as a gift!


A black V-neck was my original vision and I've made that happen! I've been wearing mine around the house and while running errands around my neighborhood... a lot. I'm sure you'll love yours too! It also seems to be the best seller. They're available in Ladies S to XXL and they run true to size. For reference, I'm wearing a Medium.

Don't Pet the 'Fro V-neck Black (Medium)

Compliments And Touching Natural Hair

I receive compliments about my hair regularly, both when I'm rocking my afro or extensions (braids or twists). I smile and accept graciously. Sometimes the compliments are followed up with questions of what I "put in my hair", or if I do other people's hair once they find out I do my hair myself. One time, I was approached outside Grand Central Station by a fellow natural sister. We chatted briefly about my hair. The end result was an interview on Coily Crowns.

My hair loves the compliments too. She stands a bit taller and dances (whether there's wind blowing or not). She has a mind of her own.

Yesterday, I was on my way to dinner and while on the subway platform a woman turned around and said, "I love your hair!"

Looking Back

The 'fro is back. Yet it's a new start. I put the twists in the day after my birthday in 2009. They were supposed to "get me through the winter"...

March 1, 2011. Tuesday. Anyone else consider Tuesday's their lucky day? Is Tuesday your day to begin? I even love the word Tuesday. I named a character in Letters To My Former Self and a screenplay, Tuesday Akers. I'm waiting to meet my real-life Tuesday.

Tuesday afternoon, March 1, 2011, I decided to take out my twists. I could've just done them over but one by one I dropped the extensions on to the living room floor. With the fresh start I'm undergoing, new hair is par for the course. Hair, I believe, can carry energy. I doubt I'd ever do anything drastic. Color? Nah. Locks? Too permanent. I haven't even trimmed my hair in over 10 years. I'm firm, stubborn yet noncommittal. Go figure.

I documented the moment by snapping a few photos right after I was done -- before I put the conditioner in, all sorts of gunk and lint sitting in it. And it felt great.

I said this year would be a year of firsts and I also made the declaration that I would finish my novel this year. My life continues to mirror the tale I penned back in 2004. Looking back to move forward.

A Brief History Of My Natural Hair

This essay was originally published in the Mahogany Soul Nappy Journey newsletter (June 2010). Subscribe and become a fan!

I didn’t have many Afro sisters back when I went natural yet I never considered being natural wouldn’t be accepted. I have been my own hairdresser for a long time, alternating between a relaxer and extensions (sometimes a year at time). When I would take out my braids or twists, I loved how full my roots felt; my natural hair and fingers massaged each other. Till one time I wondered what I would look like if I cut off my “perm”… What would I look like with just my “new growth”? I answered that question with my mother’s sewing shears 10 years ago. My BC was spontaneous; didn’t fill me with angst but excitement. (Note: I think it’s interesting that the transition is known as BC; makes me think of ancient Africa and the religious/spiritual overtones).

6639

Yesterday I met a friend for lunch in Tribeca. I traveled comfortably on the train with a light midday crowd. I got cozy in my seat and went about watching the people and reading the ads. I was amused by an ad for FlatRate movers – a checklist for moving to the West Village. Then I saw a Dr. Zizmor ad and I said to myself I would try to get a free consultation (it is a recession and I’d use my writer credentials) and I’d like to see if Dr. Zizmor is a real person. 


This afternoon, March 13th, I was on my way to a TD Bank branch to cash in some change. It took me a while to realize it because I was sitting in a different spot but I was in the same car I was in yesterday! I saw the Dr. Zizmor ad again. Then I saw the FlatRate ad and ads for 1-800-IMMIGRATION and 1-800-INNOCENT from the day before. Looking down the car, I saw I was in car number 6636. That couldn’t be, I thought. Yesterday, after a quick walk through Tribeca to walk off lunch, I rode in the car 6639. Groups of subway cars are usually sequential. Was it possible that this was the same exact train I rode yesterday, twice? Now that group of cars was in the front, headed uptown, and in the back, headed downtown. When I got off the train, sure enough, three cars away was car number 6639.

The reason I remember I rode home yesterday in car 6639 is because I had to read those numbers to the conductor through the emergency intercom when this young woman collapsed while having a seizure. It felt good that I knew what to do, while other passengers were loud and panicky or scared silent. Her eyes never closed during the seizure. I looked into her eyes, waiting for the seizure to end. Her face and expression are burned into my brain. One minute she was “looking” at me and totally out of it, next minute, she saw me. A faint smile came over her face. I started talking to her, she insisted she was ok, her pale lips and very slow, heavy blinks said otherwise. She knew what day of the week it was, where she was going before the seizure and told me that had never happened to her before. Another guy kept talking to her and cracking jokes, probably out of his own nervousness or his inner Dr. Hibbert. And she kept looking at me. Maybe it was the bright red jacket, the big afro puff, or my insistence that she go to the hospital. I think the questions I asked her made her realize I knew what I was talking about. Just like that, the train pulled into the next station and she was whisked away.


My last three consecutive rides on the IRT were on the same train, twice in the same car. I’m not a gambling woman (with money) but I knew even before I told my mother the story, she’d tell me to play those numbers. When I got back to my neighborhood from the bank, I stopped to buy some lotto. If it aint scratch-off or Mega Millions quick pick, I’m clueless. I do know there’s a game where you pick four numbers so that’s the one I bought. Then the vendor starts asking me if I want 50-50 box or straight or something else I don’t remember – like he was an auctioneer. I told him I didn’t know what he meant and that I wanted two dollars. And as I’m writing this, I just realized the numbers – 9, 6, and 3 on 3-12-09 and 3-13-09. Freaky. Friday the 13th.

Damn Black People

I find humor in SOME stereotypes. So, I’m walking around Greenwich Village on this very bright, brisk day, Afro blowing in the wind and had a hankering for some fish (I’m known to get cravings that sometimes turn into month-long binges). I end up in Little Britain at A Salt and Battery. I order Fish and Chips and the guy working on this particular day asked if I wanted any particular condiments. He said he had already put the tartar sauce in the bag. And I knew I didn’t have to ask for the vinegar, so I said no and took a seat to wait for my order. Not long after he called me when my cod and chips were fried to a crisp. 

“Here you go, love. Where are you?” he asked in his hackney accent. 

I hopped off my stool and went to the counter. Then he asked again if I wanted any condiments. He probably forgot he asked me already. I shook my head ‘no’. Then he asked if I wanted any hot sauce. Again, I said no and left the shop. I thought that was strange. I’m walking down the block and wondering, “Who the hell puts hot sauce on fish and chips?”

Black people.

I smiled. I couldn’t even get mad at him. As I’m approaching the subway entrance, I see a woman who is confused, getting directions from a man who is confused. People often ask me for navigation tips when I’m walking around so I prepped myself. Next to that man and woman, there was a homeless guy (one of those got-better-clothes-than-you-on homeless guys) sitting there shaking his cup at me. I shook my head at him and turned back to the couple trying to figure which way they should go.

“What you worried ‘bout her for? I’m the one that needs help!”

My man begging for money and gonna get rude! Maybe the cold and hunger made him irritable, but I’m supposed to go in my pocket to help him after he’s being demanding and belligerent? 

Yup, he was Black.

I should’ve reached in my bag and started eating my fish and chips right in front of him.

Again, Black People.