It was like a solar event radiating from her head, explosive yellow curlicues twirling and boinging into the stratosphere. Flaring, flaming, the bleached helixes formed a magnificent afro that any ethnicity could pull of with high-fashion finesse. It was positively Kaepernickian.
This vision appeared today in a cafe and I oddly did not see the woman’s face, just the back and side of her head. It was plainly a woman, but I have no idea if she was white, black, brown or what. I stared at the flaxen shrubbery from behind. Its corona of frizz entangles you, startles, transfixes.
It’s so loud, so brash, it’s like a bulletin, a manifesto, a mission statement. Hair, like clothes, is like that: It’s an articulate communicator, revealing much about a person, like the choice of your car or your dog does. It says This is me, and quite a bit more.
What this gigantic yellow afro says is: YES DAMMIT!
If you want a piece of that, you can buy the big ‘do for $19 from Amazon:
But that tilts toward offensive, never mind the repugnant artificiality of it.
I like what I saw, the real deal, the brazen authenticity and screw-you audacity. I like the sheer follicular electricity, all zap and fire.