Short hair has been the love of my life for five years now. I have had easier days of my life not having to deal with expensive hair problems. However, nobody told me the “what do I do with this hair?” question never goes away, even though waxing and plucking takes care of other hair departments.
There is very little you can do with short natural 4c hair. It is either cutting it, or cutting it. Nothing interesting. I knew how to tie turbans the day I cut my hair. No YouTube video, no tutorial or Pinterest. Nothing. Through instinct, life handed me this skill while stifling a chortle.
People who know my dad tell me I look like him. Anyone who doesn’t know him but sees us together knows who that chap is before I say it. Less questions to answer, good. I am fully aware of the striking resemblance. Now, with short hair I look like a boy. If you look closely, I have a peeking mustache. Top that off with a resting bitch face and I have a reason why I have not had a boyfriend for a solid minute.
In Uni, my go to outfit was the t-shirt, jeans and sneakers. On the days I felt like dressing up, I’d go for tighter jeans, tuck in a cute t-shirt and brogues. Complete boyish look. A tout once called me “kijana.” The fucking nerve!
Last year, my experiment with wigs went extremely well after I undid my braid experiment. I intend to grow my hair, so I’m onto experiments. A colleague said to me, “Unakaa dame!” affirming that I have been looking like a boy all this time! I could have been mad if I wasn’t fully aware of what she meant.
My laundry hadn’t been done in weeks which led me to start wearing a lot of formal wear to work late last year. While I studied and worked, I would often find myself at work in jeans and t-shirt, most days. My good girl skirts and dresses didn’t look ‘good-girly’ anymore. There were a few necessary inches on my rump which I hadn’t noticed until the dresses and skirts. They secretly became a favorite. As it also is for some of my male colleagues.
Age and pressure from the family have made me keen on relaxing my boundaries and expectations which have been up there with the great wall of China. I am accepting advances more and I am forgiving of typos. I still don’t take mixed signals. Mixed signals are not signals.
while some despondent men were hyping the ‘men’s conference’, the one’s in committed relationships were doing things for their ladies. Chocolates, roses, dates, gifts and all. “Must be nice,” I thought to myself.
As ‘all things work together for they that love the Lord’, I don’t know if it is the weight glow, the hair or my wardrobe preference, or the culmination of all three and the increased attention to make-up that has contributed to the increase in my DM’s. Has God finally located me?
Well, as you guessed, none of these men on my WhatsApp or DM’s asked me to go out on a date.
At the end of my usual working day, I slouched on the couch, alone, with my cup of probiotic yoghurt as I dusted my Bumble and Tinder in the hopes of a first valentine’s date, next year. That is if they jump the hurdle and last that long. 50+ weeks is enough time to be valentine enough.