|Sometimes I feel like this young man|
While we were waiting on our chicken gyros at Pita-Sub yesterday, I was telling Noah about my day when I felt his eyes wandering up to my hair. Without a word, he quickly grabbed a napkin and got up from the table. He plucked something from my afro and threw it in a nearby trashcan. He looked as if he had averted a minor crisis. “You don’t want to know what that was,” he said as he sat down.
I appreciate it when my husband removes stowaway insects from my hair. When I find them, it is a minor crisis. I thought about it and realized that strangers and friends alike are usually quick to extract things from my hair. It’s usually noticeable leaves, flower petals or in the case of yesterday. . . errant critters.
When we were spending the weekend in Atlanta, GA, Noah and I were sipping coffee at a sidewalk cafe when a gentleman passed by. He took one look at my full-on-fro and said, “Let me get this for you.” He pulled a flower from my hair with the grace of a birthday party magician. “There you go.”
What could I say aside from thank you?
That’s just one of many experiences I had where people have behaved like our chimp cousins, grooming without hesitation, as if there is nothing unusual picking through a stranger’s hair to retrieve debris. I thank them all. Without them, I walk around with unintentional hair accessories.
With hair that’s a foot away from my scalp, I never know what’s going on without looking in a mirror. I don’t have the time to examine my hair in a mirror every minute of the day, so it’s nice to have a community who’s diligent about keeping me fly.
My many thanks to you, The Pickers.