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Everyday I rise from my slumber at exactly 6:23 a.m. Not because I physically need to be up at 6:23AM, but because Black Twitter usually gets interesting past my bedtime, and I need time to catch up on what I missed. At 7:15 a.m. I move from my bed and finally make it to the bathroom to get ready for work. I usually brush my teeth first. Gotta get the residue from those Swedish Fish I ate right before bed off my teeth and pray to every God I didn’t form a cavity. I apply deodorant to make sure I’m not adding to the New York City stench that already exists. I lather myself in only the finest of cocoa butter-based lotions because ain’t nobody got time to explain why I look like all of the hydrogen dioxide has been usurped from my body by a racist river nymph. But then, and only then, do i begin to tackle the true issue at hand. My hair.
As a black male, growing the hair out of your head past brushing stage means I have to be open up an arsenal of products and tools to ensure that my hair is looking flyer than Michelle Obama at SoulCylce. I begin by first taking an afro pick and actually picking out each of yesterday’s curl like formations in my hair. Afro picks can't simply be compared to most combs. They aren’t here for your comfort. They don’t care if you’re enjoying your experience.
Are crying bruh? Are you mad that I’m yanking your soul from the top of your head? An afro pick is very much the first reminder of life not being fair that you’ll receive for the day.
Then I have to wet the pseudo afro on top of my head at this point by putting my head in the sink and praying I don’t pound my head on the faucet this time. Now, some might ask “Carrington, why don’t you just take a morning shower?” and to those people, I’d say: 1) Mind ya business, and 2) I work in New York City, night showers are very important here
After ensuring that the pseudo afro is damp, that the circumference of my head is properly lubricated with what I can only assume is water adequately filtered by the state of New Jersey, I then prepare to add the styling cream.
Now, this is no ordinary styling cream, oh no. I had to travel to the ends of the Earth (Target) for this styling cream. I had to fight suburban moms and angry kids who obviously need a nap to obtain this styling cream and hold it in my possession. It is infused with only the finest of oils, none of which i know how to pronounce. It is prepared and contained especially for me in by what I can only assume is a beautiful black woman in a lush Nubian paradise and shipped to my local trading outpost to be picked up at my convenience.
I apply liquid gold commodity onto my head and listen as my hair lets out tiny shouts of complete and utter joy. “You did it," I silently say to myself as i put the final brushes into the masterpiece that is the top of my head. If I get nothing else right, if nothing else goes my way today, at least my hair game was on point.
So with all of that being said, dear reader, after all of the turmoil, the bloodshed, the greasy fingers and picked hairs, I ask you this question: Would you let someone that has touched an NYC subway pole, a Starbucks napkin dispenser and probably their junk, run their fingers through your luscious afro locks? Nah, fam.