By Tabitha Makumi,
In a world where I could be writing about evocative topics such as global warming, gender equality, feminism and all the things that would make Mitchell Obama say “that’s my girl”, I am writing about hair. But that’s one of the perks of having your own blog. You can write about anything and everything (within reason of course) and there won’t be some vile editor to “kill your story” or ask you to change the angle or tone of your narrative. Think about a topic…any topic…Got it? Good, go write about 500 hundred words about it. So, yeah, proudly writing about hair. Bite me mainstream media.
It’s my birthday. Not today. A couple of moons ago. I know, I am slowly burning up my twenties and having my first mini mid-life crisis. But the “crisis” do deserve a whole article of their own. (Sips some cheap wine)
Moving on swiftly…. I am all pumped up for this birthday though. I don’t know why…but I have an inkling it’s because it has dawned on me that in a couple years I will be in the 30’s league and that jolts me shitless. Call it panic mode, call it whatever you may… gotta celebrate, who-hoo! Got to let lose a little bit. Meet up with some friends who won’t let my birthday pass with me in my pajamas as I listen to Glorious by Macklemore on full blast. All the while as I ruminate on all the bad decisions I have made since I was 12.
Let me not windbag you...It’s supposed to be a small party somewhere in Lamu, a rented Villa if you would call it that. My friends who aren’t crazy about having their names “blasted” here have all chipped in to cater for everything. Don’t let that fool you. When they say “Everything”, it means just booze. Cheap bastards.
“It’s the middle of the month, everyone has to fork some money for Tabby’s birthday….including you.” (Yeah, me)
Quick question, are “we” all just poor or is the “economy” crappy for everyone? (scratches head) Meh, I think it’s just me. Interestingly, that’s the how the financial decision of travelling to Lamu in the name of my birthday came to be.
Let me take you back a little bit now that I have set the scene. Sometimes I go against my list of “Never to do” list and just decide what the heck. Y.o.l.o..right? …One of those things is putting on a human hair weave with prices high enough to give you a nose bleed. Something about forking all that money on hair screams vanity on a whole new level. But what do you know, I close my eyes, dig in on my wallet and drop some few thousands on hair. “What in the name of all that’s good in the world are you doing?”
There’s that little sensible voice at the back of my head as I hand the cashier the dough. “You’ve got your birthday coming up, you’ve got to look dope,” my other inane spendthrift voice joins in on the argument and what do you know, she wins. Am I dippy or what?
Back to the birthday party. It’s lit. I’ve always wanted to say that. Lit. I love the way people use the word and do not offer any more explanation. It was lit…say no more. You don’t have to say another word after that. Who questions how “lit” it was…off with their heads. But seriously though. If lit means cruising down a homemade water slide and later cooling off with a couple of cocktails and loads of cake….then we were or the party was lit for sure!
Not until someone decides to bring the fun to a screeching halt with some silly, silly, silly and unnecessary question (Haaha)
“Is that your real hair?” asks a 5' 4'' cute young thing who is dating one of your friends. From the little I’ve gathered she is a Call Center Agent with Orange or is it Telkom? My memory fails me.
The question is not directed at me…Cannot be...or so you assume. Next thing you know, there’s a hand in your head patting and you can feel their fingers on your scalp. Like what the fuck is happening right now?
“You smile and move a bit to the left. Should you smile or should you wear your “What the f face.” You do the math. It’s your birthday. It’s a beautiful day. You are turning twenty something. Life has been good for the most part. You’ve accomplished some mediocre successes here and there… You decide to beam that beatific leer and be a lady.
“No, it’s a weave,” you respond with tongue in cheek.
I swear this is her next line of questioning.
“Did you buy it with your own money?”
And Happy Birthday to me!