The Afro-petting Zoo Is Closed:
A Public Service Announcement in 3 Parts
1
Freedom of speech is all cool,
but sometimes my hair be talkin’ shit
Not when she’s twisted or braided down
and wrapped in silk,
but sometimes,
when freshly washed and oiled
smelling like coconut and ocean
all soft and luscious
billowing up and out
wild and free,
she gets an attitude,
starts talking to strangers.
She be like “Psst. Hey. I look soft don’t I?”
She says “ Touch me, I’m like perfumed velvet,
You know you wanna touch me.”
* Now this is important: Don’t listen to her.*
2
The following is a dramatization
based on several unfortunately true events.
It was Saturday night at the club.
She was blond and sparkly
Shellacked into white go-go boots
and a pink spandex mini-dress
that was made to hold
much less of her,
but she didn’t care.
It was her birthday!
She was pink and special
And the tequila was free!
As she tottered out into the street,
Loosely supported by two equally drunk friends,
Her eyes fixed on me,
A vision of chocolate goodness,
The tremendous fluff of my ‘fro
So soft, so downy, black cotton candy
Cried out to her
Like a giant puffy siren
Singing her towards
Her own destruction
“Touch me.
I’m just as plush as that rabbit you had in kindergarten,
Pet me.”
It all happened quickly.
Startling the crowd of cool kids smoking by the door,
She let out a squeal of elation
“EEEEEEEEEEEEEE”
She shed her friends,
like a beer stained coat and
came careening towards me,
the fat in her dress set into motion
like two warring sock puppets
tarped in pink,
A mass of bubble gum jello
jiggling,
JIGGLING,
Her two hands
like the metal grabby claws
in those glass bins filled with toys
“EEEEEEEEEEEEEE”
Coming closer,
closer…
*SLAP*
The slap reverberated through the street.
Smoking ceased.
The bouncer eyed us warily,
The only sound was
the throb of diva house spilling out from the club.
A smile was turned upside down.
Pink sparkly lips quavered:
“It’s my birthday,” she whimpered “You didn’t have to…”
OH… but I did!
Don’t let this happen to you.
3
It’s big, it’s invisible,
And it surrounds me constantly
I like to call it:
“My personal space bubble.”
In the words of singer, song writer
India Arie
“I am not my hair.”
All views expressed by my hair
are not necessarily my views.
Any invitations issued by my hair
are subject to interpretation
and possible recrimination,
So to avoid potential litigation
and / or possible bitch slapping,
treat me like I am the VIP lounge
complete with velvet ropes
and burley men named Thor
forming a barrier between you and my hair.
If you’re not on the list,
Don’t touch me.
Thank you for your time and attention
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