The Fantastic Fro

If I remember correctly I decided to get an afro just to get it.  I had had one earlier on as a baby.  I had quote, end quote good hair.   All the women in the family loved it.  All the girls probably would have to, but my father had to put a stop to that.   He didn’t want me being a pretty boy.   So he took me to the Ebony World Barbershop, sat me down in Merrell’s chair and the good hair was gone.  It wasn’t until the fifth grade that I decided to grow my hair out again. There was no particular reason other than I wanted to try it out.  I have been trying it ever since.

            I’ve been called Kobe Bryant, Boondocks,?uestlove, Black Panther and any other afrocentric person or body.  Another term of endearment thrown my way is that I like look like a microphone.  I remember when I went to an education conference and this lady for a split second thought I was one of her old high school running buddies, they called him Treetop.  I’m like a fat person, a cock eyed or buck tooth person or member of any other group that gets talked about.  I’ve heard everything there is to hear and I can probably beat you to the punchline. 

            Even my own mother has a problem with the ‘fro.  She and many others always ask me, “When are you going to get rid of that thing?” or “Why don’t you get braids?” The reason is it’s just me.  People know when I come into a room, it’s my calling card.  My ‘fro is an extension of me.  It’s become a symbol.  It takes people back to a time when having a natural was natural.

           

Now I’m not going to lie I’ve gotten braids three times.  There was one attempt before the first complete braiding.  It was the first time I had ever been to Detroit and the first time I can recollect meeting my Detroit family.  One of my cousins who had driven with us from Chicago wanted to braid my hair. About two braids in, I was through.  I just couldn’t do it. 

            The first full braiding took place during my freshmen year in high school.  The girls in my Spanish class had been begging me for weeks to get my hair braided. I finally caved in. In broadcast journalism class we were doing a newscast and I needed a story.  So I decided that I would do a piece where I’m asking a girl about hair braiding while she’s braiding my hair. One of the girl’s started in Spanish class but couldn’t finish.   Broadcast Journalism was around ninth hour, so until then I looked like Two Face, with one side braided and the other side wild. 

            When ninth hour struck, the girl chickened out.  She didn’t want her face on camera.  That was all well and good with me but my teacher Miss Strunk needed her face on camera.  So I ransacked the hallways and found a girl willing to be on camera and who could supposedly braid hair.  The interview went good and Miss Strunk said the story looked great.  In all actuality, she messed me up.  That girl didn’t know a strand of hair from a noodle of spaghetti.  The minute I got home I, with the help of my little sister, took that mess down.

            The last two braid episodes came about after joining an organization called Urban Underground in 2004.  The first took place in Detroit at the fifth annual Black Alliance for Educational Options Symposium.  Some of the other members and I were hanging out and this girl wanted to braid my hair.  I had no contest. She finished it, I got some accolades and acknowledgments, bought a doo-rag and a few days later took them out. 

            The second, and last time (for now), was a week or so later when another Urban Underground girl wanted to braid my hair.  Again no contest.  I kept it for about a week or so and it just wasn’t me.   I took them out and haven’t gotten braids ever since.  I want to keep my ‘fro as long as I’ve got hair.  As Undercover Brother always says, “You mess with the ‘fro, you got to go.”