Don’t touch me…

Summer is upon us my friends. Frolicking in the fields of decadence and the consumption of freedom is but a step away.

When I started to write this editorial I was going to take a serious slant. Basically, I was going to hammer your conscience with talks of morals and growing up. But that’s no fun, so I’ll get it out of the way.

“This summer do something other than get smashed.”

There it is in a nutshell.

I’m overcome with joy because there really are more important things to talk about.

I cut my Afro off.

I didn’t do it personally, of course — I paid for it. If I had done it, this would be my obituary column instead. I was the kid who ran with scissors.

Anyway.

For the first time in over a year my scalp has felt the breezes of nature. My sleep has been sweet, and when I wake up, I don’t have to comb anything. I just get up, do a little happy dance, and jump in the ’98 Maxima. Saturday night I actually was rubbing my head against some tropical leaves at my favorite caf. It felt so good. It was like a thousand little fairies were dancing on my follicles bringing good tithing of Pez and Tab.

I had actually been trying to cut my hair off for a month but I couldn’t bring myself to part with it. Every time I thought I was solidified in my decision, a fox from the far side of Venus would come up to me and say “O my God. I love your hair! Can a touch it? Ohh, its so soft. Sexy!”

Now that was baller, but now I’ll tell you what wasn’t.

Everyday (no exaggeration on this), some one would either touch my hair in a course manner without asking, or ask me how my hats stayed on my head. It’s time for me to clear the air on my hair.

The only thing I hate more than people asking me how my hat stays on my head, is people touching my damn hair.

Do I look like the type of guy who would stick pins in my hair to hold a hat on? Did people really think that I had that type of time? It was ludicrous to be asked 33 times in one day about my hat.

Even worst than this are the males who greeted me by pressing their hands in my fro. Where were their social skills? Why can’t we shake hands like men? Are you as Podunk as your actions suggest?

If you were involved in any of the above you are unsavory. No middle ground whatsoever.

Sorry that got really out of hand, but with every Afro that I’ve had in life (total number being 7), I have had people who touch me. I’ve been scarred to the core. I have been abused. You’re guilty of “Afrasment”.

So.

I found out that Rosa Parks died, and that sucked. Last I had heard she was suing Outkast for that song about going to the back of the bus. I didn’t see what was so wrong with that. I used to play with scissors back their all the time.

Also, James Brown is dead. That’s just not good. I would have liked to have met him, and borrowed a dollar and 20 cents, only to never pay it back just so I could have a cool story to tell to the ladies.

I am certain the NAACP is going to revoke my “blackness” for this editorial.

I cut the “black power ‘fro”, but at the same time, I hadn’t faced the fact that two influential African American icons had passed away. I am not big on race, but since the end of this sentence, I have not been a very good “brutha.”

I pray that you all stay safe this summer and see you next semester.

Watch out for the squirrels.

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