I have some of the funniest conversations these days. They have me laughing hard.
Ferris Wheel. So, a couple of weeks ago, I posted about the new Ferris Wheel in downtown Atlanta. I have no desire to jump on any ride that took less than two weeks to build. I asked my best friend
"Hey girl, they got that new Ferris Wheel downtown. You gonna ride it?"
"It's right down there by the aquarium," I continued when she didn't respond. "It cost $13 dollars for adults, so that's not bad. I think the tourists would like it. But I'm not jumping on anything that got put up that quick."
LadyTee sighed. "Girl, listen. It's been raining EVERY day in the ATL since May. They laid out that cement on that wet ground. I know it's cement, but that stuff need time to settle. But the ground is soaking wet"
"I didn't even think about that aspect of it."
Yes, it has been raining cats and dogs for the past couple of months. I'm surprised my house hasn't slid down the street.
"Now come 2015?" LadyTee continued, "Oh yeeaaaah! Oh yeah, girl. I'll ride that. I'm up on it. But that ground need to settle. And some rain and snow gotta hit that. Lightning need to strike it. And the sun gotta shine on it a little more. I'll jump on it in 2015. Not now, playa!"
"I know that's right!" I said.
"Now them white folks? You know they hollering 'Yes! I'm going to go ride the ferris wheel! I'm going to be the first one on it!' Not me, girl. Not me."
Much laughter behind that one. Ladytee use to work up in Buckhead. "Up there with them white folks," she always says. And that makes her an expert on their behavior. And she is always right.
I'm not jumping on that ferris wheel either, LadyTee. It's not for us anyway. It's for the tourists. But come 2015, if that sucker hasn't fallen down yet, you and me... we can go ride together.
Yes we can.
Haircut. So I got a haircut last week. I wrote about it briefly on Friday, I believe.
But it wasn't that simple. No indeed.
I walked in, equipped with a photo of my blog sista Serenity_23's hair. And they directed me to this young fella named Soho.
Soho... he sure was fine, with his lil' red bone self, and his arms full of colorful tattoos. I needed to stop looking at him. He couldn't be no older than my little brother. Soho was indeed a "Milk and Cookies" himself.
And I upset Soho something awful.
He took my smartphone and stared hard at the picture. "I can't cut your hair like that. Ya'll got different hair."
She has that "good hair", you see. And I don't have good hair.
We discussed all of this in politically correct terms.
"Well cut my hair like yours, then," I said.
This started a big discussion and a lecture about how everybody's hair is not the same.
I stood there listening and nodding, all the while thinking... Dude, just cut my hair.
He sat me down in his chair. Then he started picking out my hair with his steel teeth afro pick.
"Yes, and some coconut oil."
Soho lectured me once again. "When you come in here, come in here with your hair dry. Bone dry."
"I'm sorry," I said real slow.
All the while I was thinking... Dude, just cut my hair.
Then he actually started cutting my hair.
"Look at this," he hollered. "My clippers, they overheating!"
He showed me the clippers.
"My clippers! They hot! They hot!"
"My clippers, they so hot!"
"I'm sorry," I said once again. I really wanted to say... Dude, just cut my hair.
He kept cutting my hair, all the while running his mouth.
"Why you squinting so hard he asked?
"I hear the clippers," I said, still squinting. "It reminds me of a dentist's drill."
"You ladies," he said. "You want your hair cut short, but you're afraid of clippers."
The shop was interesting. There weren't many folks in there. And Judge Judy was on the flat screen TVs. There were two huge flat screen TV's on the walls. I thought this was a bit odd, since in the ATL, a week doesn't go by that someone doesn't slam a stolen truck through a storefront and steal televisions, hair weave, and designer jeans.
I'm sure someone has come in and cased that joint.
But I didn't mention this to Soho. He was too busy wailing.
A whole gang of bruthas exited the back room of the shop. Heck, I didn't know what was going on. Everyone was giving everyone fist pounds and shout outs. It was like they just finished up some black power civil rights meeting.
Judge Judy went off. And the news came on. And there was some camera footage from a gas station robbery a few blocks away. The barbers were commenting on how the guy shooting the gun had never shot a gun before.
"Look at him. He don't even know how to shoot. Look how he holding that gun."
You know how my mind works. I start thinking about these comments.
This must be why no one robs them, and why these TVs can just hang freely on the wall in a full glass storefront, I thought.
All these bruthas up in here must be packing heat.
Things quieted down again.
And then it was just me, Your Friendly Neighborhood Oldgirl LadyLee...
And ol' fine Soho.
When he was about done, all my shea buttered hair was on the floor. That guy continued hollering.
"Ohhhhh, you done messed my my mat. All this greasy hair on my mat! OHHHHHHH!!!!!"
"Look, look, look. Listen to this," he said. He slides across the floor, and his sneakers make a squeaky noise, sort of like when you walk on an office floor after coming in from the rain.
I thought he was exaggerating. I only put a teaspoon of shea butter on my hair, and by the end of the day, it's pretty much dry. That little bit couldn't have that joker slipping and sliding that hard.
I just sat there and said, for the umpteenth time, "I'm sorry."
I really wanted to say, Dude would you just calm down and cut my hair.
He was a rather talkative fellow. I am not. And he soon realized that, and left me alone. And he shut up all that whining. Goodness.
But I am going back to him. He did what I needed him to do. That's all I want....
Hopefully next time he will calm down.
And just cut my hair.
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