“I like your locs!”
This is what he said to me as I exited the car. I was enamored. For some reason, his verbalized approval meant a whole lot more than it probably should have.
Hours earlier, we were sitting at a bar in downtown Chicago on Christmas Day. As I watched him talk about his experiences in Los Angeles versus Chicago, and continuously, unnecessarily apologize for his extremely un-politically correct sense of humor, my eyes naturally gazed upon his own locs, very similar to mine in texture, length, and size, but clearly more mature. Each one curled and coiled out from under his hat, in its own direction.
“I’m really thinking of moving back. People in LA are just dumb! Just fuckin’ stupid! Excuse me…”
His explanation for his vulgarity showed a sign of respect and politeness. It reminded me of a cool points earned moment with his son early on in our “getting to know you” stage of our relationship. He sat on his porch, as I sat somewhere else listening to him over the phone. He abruptly asked me to hold and then continued his conversation with the male voice that approached him. I couldn’t make out what was being said, but I questioned the topic at hand upon his return. “Man-talk, baby,” was his response. Normally, I would’ve found that kind of exclusivity offensive, but I liked that he felt whatever the nature of that conversation was, was not fit for my ears, as a lady.
“You’re good!” I kept reassuring the effortlessly vintage, blipster, loc’ed man sitting diagonally across from me at our four-top bar table. I found it amusing that he felt the need to keep excusing himself. He knew I’d been involved with his son since at least that drunken summer night a couple of years earlier when I called him for advice on how to remotely calm his spawn down. They both had a crass sense of humor. I was used to it and usually enjoyed it. However, it seems that with the father, may stop there. Then again, maybe not. He could have been holding back a little as this was our first time in each other’s presence. I remembered our first phone conversation; he spoke to me in the most professional voice, telling me his son was a tough personality, but overall a good kid. But as soon as I handed the phone back to his son, I heard a different voice. With me, he beamed over all of his son’s accomplishments, particularly his extreme basketball skill–“a complete natural!”
It was somewhat like a sales pitch. He was excited that his son seemed to have found a good pairing for a partner. I imagined all the things he must’ve already known about me. He probably liked that I had no kids, was college-educated, held a pretty decent job, lived on the Northside of the city, just blocks away from where he once raised his boy temporarily. I mentally compared their similarities.
Complexion? Yes.
Hands? Nope.
Height? Nope.
Athletic Build? Yes. Facial features? Eh, maybe. There was no question that they were indeed father and son, but they weren’t as identical as I’d concluded, based on pictures.
“So, let me ask you this–and I already know you have, but I’m going to ask anyway. Have you met his mother?”
“Nope!” I said, with a minor tone of accusation. His father’s eyes quickly darted toward his son, seated to my left.
The son interjected, “Hey, hey–let’s not put both feet in the door at once!”
“Oh, I understand.” His father’s face slightly soured. “I totally understand why you wouldn’t have introduced her.”
One day, the son told me he’d make sure that I never met his mother. On another occasion, he explained that a mother and son’s relationship typically determines how he will treat his girlfriend. I told him that it was always a wonder for me that he could be a good person, despite his troubled childhood and, specifically, his relationship with his mother.
I informed his father of the same sentiment. His chest puffed up a little and then immediately minimized.
Without a doubt, it was obvious their bond was strong, even before meeting him. They cracked jokes on passersby and each other. They exemplified the kind of relationship that people often mention when they say, “No matter how long it’s been since we talk, we always jump right back in as if we never stopped being close.”
I felt very in place. I liked that I had been around enough guys to feel comfortable; I wasn’t too prissy to make the stereotypes of female gender identity stand out. I was a self-acclaimed “guy’s girl.” I was like Lauryn Hill with Pras and Wyclef–a good fit. They discussed NBA players and trades, and I easily tuned out but not to the point where I was obviously bored. I liked that I could chime in about social issues and current events with boldness and confidence.
I liked being with them–their energy. I liked his father’s locs and that I, as his son’s choice in a mate, reflected a glimpse of his dad, with my own. Even more than that, I liked that his father liked my locs, too
– – –
Seeing each deep black tentacle of combined tendrils gather across my white bathroom counter was like letting go of everything that felt binding, including him. I sent selfies to friends and family to share my new look and subtly display the bold move.
“What are you going to do now?” and “WHY?!” were the typical responses. One of my college friends said, “Oh, he’s gone FOR REAL now!” She was right in a sense.
I was preparing for a Zoom meeting when he saw my hair slicked down. Friends and colleagues previously commented that I looked like someone from the 1920s or an old-school uncle who was still proud to have a full head of hair. It was his first time seeing me without my once past-my-shoulder locs, even though we lived together and I’d cut them off two weeks prior. The thought of cutting them was premeditated but the act was impulsive. The removed weight of each snip was just like what you see in movies and TV shows, a release.
Though still heavily present, he’d been gone to me, even though I was budding our new baby in my belly and our three-year-old daughter pranced around the home. She understood, in the way that children often do, the union of us s a family and yet was keenly aware of the division between us.
His mouth opened wider than anytime he yelled during an argument. “You cut them off? Wow!”
I felt a familiar wave of dissatisfaction, but decided to nonchalantly reply, “Yep.”
He snickered and left the room.
“Your hair will be long again though, right, Mommy?” our daughter asked. It was as though she could sense the rejection aimed toward me, and sought a resolution.
“Maybe, we’ll see. I love my hair just like this, too.”
“It is pretty!” she shrieked, as she darted away toward the living room.
About a month later, he was finally physically gone, and my hair, even more so. My head was lighter and my stomach was heavier.
In ultrasounds, “so much hair” was always the highlighted feature the technicians would mention. Through forced smiles, I mirrored their excitement. With a toddler and a growing womb, my focus had become how to navigate the world of parenting, single-handedly. I could give a damn about hair follicles.
The skill of balancing rage and normalcy is something that has come second nature for me as a Black woman in America, but I never expected to have to practice the emotional scale as a mother, toward the father of my children or my own earth-side child, who beams at the memories of former daddy-daughter play sessions, walks to the neighborhood store, or random pieces of advice. Not only does her memory amaze, but also that in the same breath, she speaks of the fear she had when mommy and daddy were yelling, or how crazy ‘DaDa’ began to act.
Once, when discussing dinner during a car ride home, she blurted out, “Maybe one day we can all sit at the dinner table together. Me, you, baby, and DaDa.”
“Maybe, one day.” I tried to sound genuine.
One day, I hope my son has the opportunity to meet his father. Despite his absence, there is no question that they are indeed father and son. Before we had children, he proudly shared a baby photo of himself. The photo’s highlights were his big toothless grin and wild hair. Then, madly in love, I couldn’t help but imagine him and our son with a strong bond, cracking jokes on passersby and each other, exemplifying the kind of relationship where time or presence doesn’t matter.
Like father, like son, our son’s hair sprawls all over the place, curls daily undeciding if they will be loose or tight.
Everywhere we go, people comment, “Wow, look at all that hair!” “He has so much!” “I love his curls,” and the one with the most sting but still my favorite…“You think you gonna loc it?”
Maybe, one day.
************
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