Saturday, 10 October 2009
Baby Baby Let Me Fix My Weave and Gimme some Creamy Crack!
When I was just a wayward soul trying to make ends meet as a makeup artist in Hollywood, a booker suggested that I learn hair. Meaning that a production manager would hire someone whom could do both jobs. Opposed to hiring four people, but getting two for a gig. Made sense so I went and enrolled in beauty school. No, I am not a beauty school drop out. I was a beauty school thrown out. A badge of honour to me, a thorn in the side to some others. But going to beauty school in the 3rd and Fairfax district I met a few woman whom were from south central LA. Weaved up, weaved down, and braided to the hilt. They were cool chicks much cooler than some of the Russian Jew girls I was surrounded by in class. They were from the hood and these girls had a wicked sense of humour. Especially when it came to their weaves.
Once a fight broke out between two of the girls in class, and all hell broke loose over something so trivial. But guess what was the first thing these bitches went for? Yep, the weave. Bets were placed. Cattle calls were made, I heard someone yell "Your Momma". Furniture was moved back and complete pandemonium. All the while they refused to let go of each others hair tracks. What impressed me was under that brute force, those weaves stayed in, for a while at least. They fucking pulled, yanked, and ripped that shit, but they were staying put. Eventually
Tamikah's weave was the first to give way and ripped from her scalp, losing me fifty bucks. Just remembering it now was pretty funny. Not for the violence, but the look on the teachers faces, for they just didn't know what to do for fear they might get cut. I mean these chicks bus it in to West Hollywood on a two hour bus ride, to and from.
They were not to be fucked with. Nevertheless, they were cool woman, whom made me appreciate black hair. They taught me how to do a hard press, and braid that shit like a ghetto queen with a 40 ounce that any hoochie momma would be proud to wear.
So Chris Rock is made Good Hair. An exposé of comic proportions that only Chris Rock could pull off, GOOD HAIR visits beauty salons and hairstyling battles, scientific laboratories and Indian temples to explore the way hairstyles impact the activities, pocketbooks, sexual relationships, and self-esteem of the black community. Me, I love going to hair battles. Cause this isn't just hair do's. No. This is "out of my mother fucking way hair". Like a peacock woman spend fucking duckets on their hair. But it's hard to believe that a woman would pay up to $5000 for a wig or a weave. When I see a woman with some amazing do I take a photo of it. I also take photos of women's hair that looks like shit too. Then I ask myself is she on the creamy crack?
Still the weave and the process that some women and some men go through for straight long luxurious hair is phenomenal. So it's back to the creamy crack, and dark and lovely for most black women. When I was a kid there was this boy whom wore his hair like a troll dolls, and I thought he was the coolest kid in class, of course I was five at the time. Yet I wanted hair like that and wear it like a big fucked up fro fresh from electrocution. My big finish is closing with this, and yes, it's un-be-weavable. Meet the glamourous Briana Bonds, and her amazing weave, is there nothing a weave can't do? Who new that weaves were such a life saver?
Excuse me while I fix my tracks.