So Fresh, So Classy, So White

I'm not one for epic blogs like my boy, but I promise you that this one is going to be huge.

I've spent about 18 or so hours of the last three days getting my hair done. Seriously, the hair experience alone is worth me praying that if there is such thing as reincarnation, I am coming back as a white girl. Black women are guaranteed a dramatic, ridiculous experience every time we get our hair done.

Let me introduce you to my braider, Fatou, a 28-year-old Sengalese woman who has been in the U.S. roughly five years. She's a braider, who works in her sister's shop. Her sister basically treats her like a remixed indentured servant, which is how I wound up feeling like I was in the middle of a heist when I was just trying to get the re-up on the braids.

The Caper

Let me tell you something about black women and hair. We will go through a fire-breathing dragon, 12 pits, four witches, a gang of curses and 10 boiled snakes to get the wig tight. I've never had a hairdresser lacking in drama. We know the tighter the 'do, the more drama we must experience.

So, Fatou's sister was going out of town for four days, and Fatou decided this was a perfect time for financial emancipation. She hit me with a deal. She'd discount my normal braid free in exchange for a little deception. While her sister was away, she was going to do my hair on the sneak, pocket the money and her sister would be none the wiser.

The Reality: The Caper Brangs The Drama

I decided to go along with Fatou. I went to get my braids taken down, like normal. Fatou's sister was there, but I played it off like I didn't want a re-up. But me and Fatou already had made our backwater deal to meet up after her sister was gone out of town.

Now, Fatou has been in the country for about five years. Her husband is a cab driver in New York City and he has no immediate plans to move to Da O. My guess is that Fatou's husband is prolly in New York straight WILIN'. Meanwhile, she's in Da O, taking care of their 5-month-old. She also has another kid back in Senegal. I'm not sure if that's his, but I'm going to guess it is.

Hopefully, you understand the characters properly -- Fatou, the Side Hustler; Evil Sister, and me, the innocent customer who just wants her naps to go on vacation.

Now, any black woman knows that the hair deal is never as good as they say, or as uncomplicated. Fatou had it set up, but there were unexpected twists. Day One:

- I had to give her a ride home after she unbraided my hair. She said she lived down the street. So 20 minutes later, we're in the car, still driving....

- Like I said, she's got a 5-month-old. And whenever lil' girl senses mommy's on a groove with my hair, she starts crying like Brittany Spears is her momma. Trick loves the kids, but I was ticked because lil' girl seemed to know to cry at Defcon 1 whenever Fatou did about five or six braids in a row.

And, to think, we haven't even gotten to the meat of this tale.

"You So White"

It's Sunday morning. Day Three of me, Fatou and my hair. On Day Two, Fatou, braided for four hours. She made a reasonable amount of progress considering her baby cried every 10 minutes, and her phone rang every three minutes.

Didn't mention this, but after she braided my hair and needed that ride home, she begged me to stop at a party store, where she decided to buy about $100 worth of calling cards. Those calling cards would be a key factor in the slow nature of the job.

Anyway, Sunday was our final day together. Thank goodness. But Fatou decides she's going to open up and explain the world as she sees it. She's going to play Cornel West as she's braiding my hair.

"You so white," she told me.

Fatou didn't mean it as an insult. She meant it as a compliment. That's the rub. She said I was "classy" and "different." I asked her what she meant. Apparently, she had developed quite the picture of African Americans in the last five years.

She said we were "mean," and mistreated African people.

"You not ghetto," she said.

She explained how most African Americans she knew didn't have their degree, acted classless and it was clear she equated a picture of success with white folks.

She told me I talked white and "acted" white. First time I ever got that. I'm from the D. I didn't befriend a white person until I got to college. Yet Fatou seemed generally amazed that I knew how to behave, which made me think about a whole lot of things.

Whenever people want to have one of those who-has-it-worse convesations, this is an example that brings home the worldwide discrimination and stereotyping African Americans face.

All around the world, black people are universally thought to be trash. The world has learned that black people are less than. Fatou's picture of us was formed before she got here, and it was cemented once she lived here. Which begs an important question:

Does perception make reality or does reality make perception?

That is not to say I perceive African Americans to be unsuccessful. That is to say I believe the stereotype of us is that we are lazy, ignorant and excessive. If you think about it, that's hilarious considering the U.S. was built on our sweat. I mean, let's be real, you don't enslave people who are lazy.

"I do not get why black people here don't understand that the strongest were brought here, not the weakest," Fatou said.

Her comments were more intriguing to me, particularly after O'Reilly and that wench Adrianne Curry explained how low they thought us to be. Fatou, an African, sees us the same way. Like, O'Reilly, she would be shocked if she went somewhere and didn't see us shooting one another or acting disrespectful. Her braiding shop is right where there are a heavy concentration of black folks and all her clientele -- both on the sly and on the books -- is black. Makes you think.

Guns and Butter

Fatou asked me if I had ever been to a foreign country, and she was extremely surrpised that I had been to four different countries. Remember, her picture of black Americans is a tiny one. The thought of us traveling abroad is quite stunning. She thinks all we do is overdose on chicken and rims.

She told me in Senegal that her people believe American streets are "paved with money." Many urban myths exist about America. She sees the irony in that because, apparently, Americans like to invent what they think her homeland is like.

'They ask me about jungles," she said, while on cornrow 155. "I've never even seen one."

She said her home looks a lot like the one she's in. Big shock: Africa isn't just about jungles, blood diamonds and loin cloths.

What was funny to me is that she scoffed at the stereotypes of her homeland, but saw no problem creating one for the black folks in the U.S. I explained to her that African Americans had been conditioned to believe that Africans didn't like us. We are told most Africans think we are a disgrace because we squander financial and educational opportunities. I can't disagree, but I also think that's an incomplete picture.

Ok, so after the philosophical discussion, after the braids were finally done -- about 9 1/2 hours altogether -- she asked me to take her for groceries.

Say what?

Each one, teach one or Screw you?

So I had a huge dilemma: Fatou doesn't have a car. She's got a 5-month-old. She's making money behind her sister's back.

The Christian side warred with my evil, American side, which said, screw you, braid lady. I've had to put up with your crying-ass baby, nagging-ass African friends and relatives, and stereotypes about my folks. If you needed bread that badly, you should have thought about it before.

But I got to thinking: When you need help, you just wish to God somebody would do it out of the kindness of your heart. Fact is, I've been blessed. I have had people help me. And the greatest form of help comes when you have no earthly idea why you deserved it. Taking her to the market -- and I had to go too -- wasn't going to put me out my way. The only reason I wouldn't have done it is to punish her for taking damn near 10 hours on my hair. Should she have been more professional? Hells yeah. Should she have given me an even bigger discount? Hells yeah.

But my shit did look tight when it was done. Can't forget that.

But I wanted to get home, watch my Sunday Ticket, have a few brews and bitch about my fantasy team. Nowhere in there was it room to help an African mother get bread for the night.

And so....

I did it anyway. I took Fatou to the market. She got her bread. I got my Sam Adams. I was annoyed. The entire way there I was thinking about what a huge sucker I was. But you know what? After the market, when I dropped her off, I felt good. I felt good because I helped someone who needed it. I helped someone when it didn't benefit me whatsoever.

"God will bless you. You sweet," Fatou said.

That's not why I did it, but if it happens, I'm not going to give the blessing back. I did it just because I didn't want to do it. I did it because, in a silly way, I felt like I was changing her view of what she thought us to be. It was worth it.