Hair Ye! Hair Ye!

What you know about this?

"Hey, did y'all hear this story about the Surgeon General addressing your peoples at the Bronner Brothers' Hair Show? Talking about how y'all don't exercise because you don't want to mess your hair up?"

That was the question I threw out into the hair salon last week. I said it loud enough to get  the attention of everyone from the sisters under the dryers to one in the shampoo bowl right on over to the ones getting hair chemically straightened and another who was there getting a few weave tracks sewn in. And saying "y'all" was appropriate because I, an African-American woman, was addressing a salon full of other African-American women--and that is exactly who the Surgeon General meant to reach with that message.

Black women. (Which technically she should know all about seeing as she is one.)

Okay, so actually this is a rather old story in the news. That Bronner Brothers'  Hair Show, where all of this went down, was back in August of 2011. While I'm usually quite aware of a lot of current events, I admit that I didn't even hear about this whole Surgeon General thing until very recently. I was having a text exchange with my super-fit sista-friend (and former Grady chief resident) Julie J-M about a whole bunch of nothing and somehow that ended with her sharing this with me.

Here's our exchange, pretty much verbatim:

"Just gave my residents some copies of your article in the Annals. Just read it."

"Awww, thanks. Just told MY residents about the time you did one hundred push ups in a row post call. Far more interesting, you know."

"You are ridiculous. Workouts have been on hold for a few days -- trying to keep the press and curl from unfurling."

"Aaah. The plight of the black woman. Preach pastor."

"Have you blogged about that? Remember when the Surgeon General Regina Benjamin brought it up as a public health issue at the hair show last year?"

"Whaaaat?! That is SO my next post."
 

Julie JM with her natural hair (and the proof of the 100 push ups legend.)

After that, she sent me a link from the NY Times so that I could get the full scoop complete with the reader comments that followed.

Sister Surgeon General

So that's how I even got this on my radar. I figured the hair salon was a perfect place to bring this up--even if it was a year later.

"Yeah, girl! You just hearing about that? That lady took a lot of heat for saying that!" one of the stylists chimed in. "She was quoting studies and everything. Saying basically, y'all gone die from not wanting to sweat your hair out."

Everybody erupted in laughter.

Next came the peanut gallery--starting with the dryer ladies. One of them lifted up the hood and craned her neck over toward me. "Hold up, pump the brakes! What'd she say?"

A sister getting a relaxer worked into her hair answered before I could. "Basically, she went to the Bronner Brothers' Show and told that whole audience that part of the reason they all got big asses is 'cause they too damn worried about their hair." More laughter.

"Awww, hell naw!" Dryer-lady yelled out before pulling the hood back down.

When put that way, I guess it did sound kind of bad.

"Hold up. What the hell is the Surgeon General doing talking about people sweating out their hair? She need to be somewhere telling folks to say no to drugs or somethin'!" That statement came from somewhere in the room. Where, I do not know--which is the nature of how the beauty shop discussions eventually go.

"Well, I ain't mad at her for saying that. She kept it real, if you ask me." This one came from the shampoo bowl--I'm sure of it since the woman speaking was talking in a voice that was exaggeratedly loud to overcome the running water. "Real talk, I don't go to my boot camp on Friday since I get my hair done on Thursdays. And I pay for the full week!"

"I'm with you, girl. I skip my running club if it's drizzling outside. Forget that!"

And the amen choir went on and on. Finger snaps. High fives. All that.

Now. Let me digress for a bit just to seize this teachable moment in cultural competency.

*clearing throat*

Let's start with the Bronner Brothers' Hair Show, shall we? The Bronners are pretty much icons when it comes to black hair. It all started with the patriarch, Nathaniel Bronner, Sr. and his younger brother Arthur who started out selling hair care products in the forties, and subsequently had their very first Bronner Brothers' Hair Show in 1947 at the Butler Street YMCA--which is literally a rock's throw from Grady Hospital. (Jesse Hill Jr. Drive, the street that Grady is on, was originally called Butler Street up until 2002 or so.)

Anywho. The Bronner Brothers' Hair Shows have become the Mecca of all of those doing ethnic (read: black folks') hair. And yes. If you are wondering if this is the place where people make the multicolored helicopter hair art projects on stage, that answer is yes. However, beyond that, they also draw talented stylists from all over the world who do "regular" hairstyles, too. And so. You have to admit that it was pretty genius of Sister Surgeon General Benjamin to talk sistas, hair and health in that venue.

Mmmm hmmm.

Oh. The other cultural competency pearl is more an urban dictionary type thing. When that woman in the shampoo bowl said, "I ain't mad at her," I want to be sure that those reading that knew exactly what she meant.

*clearing throat again*

Literally, that statement could be simply a response to a real true concern that you've offended someone or gotten on their bad side.


"Josie, when you asked me if you'd gained weight I thought you wanted me to be honest. I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings or if you're upset with me for saying yes."

"Oh no. I'm not mad at you at all, Marjorie. You were simply being a true friend."

That's one definition. Now. Let's get to the other definition--and proper use--of that same statement as used by 97.8% of all of the persons of color that I know. Better yet--how about something I heard in that very salon on that same day:

(While reading US magazine under the dryer. . . .)

"Girrrrl, Katie Holmes dipped out on your boy, didn't she? Had herself a crib on the side with a trap door and everything. Talk about Mission Impossible!"

"Chile please. I ain't EVEN mad at Katie for doing what she had to do. Ever since he acted a clown on Oprah's couch I knew that dude wasn't right."

"Yeah, girl. He acted crazy with that dude from the Today Show, too. Matt Lauer?"

"Mmmm hmmm, that was crazy.I ain't mad at her for disassociating herself with all that craziness."

"But he was cute when he was in that movie with Cuba Gooding, Jr." 

"Oh yeah! Jerry MacGuire!"

"But you know he's short, though. Like five feet even, girl!"

"Whaaaat? She's tall! I bet she can't even wear heels with him!"

"Ugghh, now I really ain't mad at her!"

(See? Don't you now understand why I love the hair salon so much?)

Ah hem. Where was I?

Oh. Yeah. Sisters and their hair and exercise.

Let me just go right on the books and say it right now: I don't think I know a SINGLE black woman (with a kinky hair pattern and without a weave) that has not considered her coiff during exercise or inclement weather. To the point of CHANGING PLANS ALTOGETHER.

Yeah. I said it.

Case in point: Spinning. You know? The bicycling classes with the thumping music in just about every gym? Spinning is a GREAT workout. No question about it. It works the glutes, the abs, the thighs, the everything. If you do a Spin class, no doubt about it--you walk out of it feeling like you can throw a car over your head. It's that kind of workout.

But.

The room gets really hot in Spin classes. And a hot room means a lot of hot sweat. Which means, if you're a sista, hair that is a hot mess.

See, I'm one of those rare, lucky individuals who sweats very little. And on top of that, when I DO sweat, it does not involve my scalp. Trust me--there are black women reading this right at this very moment who are narrowing their eyes in envy.

As well they should.

So me? I can go for a run. Do a step class. Do Body Pump. You name it. And at the most, I'll get a film over my face and that's about it. (There is pathology probably involved in that, but that's a whole 'nother story.) So yeah. Lucky me, I'm not the person who has to think or worry about my 'do becoming a don't when I'm exercising.

Except.

The one time that I went to a Spinning class. A friend talked me into it--swearing that it was the BEST workout and calorie burner. She swore I'd be hooked on it. And--what's even better--the class she invited me to was at 6AM which was right on par with my preference for morning exercise.

Did I mention that this friend of mine had stick straight hair that she often let air dry?

Mmmm hmmm.

So check it. Six AM. On a weekday. A day that I had to GO TO WORK afterward. I meet up with my friend and we get our spin on. And I fully agree that it was a kick ass workout, just like she said. I got so into it that I went into some kind of fitness zone where I was feeling the music deep down in my bones and loving the energy of it all. It was a GREAT workout. FANTASTIC even. I even looked over at my friend and told her so. REPEATEDLY. What an AWESOME workout this was. And she was smiling all big like the rockstar-workout pal that she was.

And all was right with the world.

That is, until I wiped my forehead and grazed the front of my hair.

What the. . . ?!?

Soaked. Soaked like somebody soaked it with a SUPER SOAKER. At 7AM.

Now. If you are a black woman or any woman with KINKY hair that you DON'T wear in an AFRO/LOC'ed/TWISTED/WEAVED/BRAIDED style. . . .you know what an absolute DEBACLE this was. A 911 debacle even.

And let me just clarify--yet again--something else. KINKY HAIR is not the same as CURLY HAIR that you blew straight or flat-ironed but that now has reverted to its natural curly pattern. When I say kinky hair pattern, I'm talking about hair that requires elbow grease, heat and/or chemical relaxers to straighten out. I am NOT talking about hair that inconveniences you just a bit because you don't prefer your bouncy curls. I'm talking the kind of hair that does not afford you a whole lot of spontaneity. And that, without a very clear plan and product line up, can make something like being super-soaked in a Spinning class or ha-ha-very-funny pushed into a swimming pool in ninth grade NOT FUNNY AT ALL.

And before anyone even decides to say it, comment it, or email it--this in NO WAY means that I have an issue with my culture or the hair God gave me and those who share it with me. I have no issue with whatever style that any person chooses for their hair, either. My choice to wear my own hair in its current closely cropped and chemically relaxed style does not, in my opinion, represent some kind of self hatred for my people, my heritage or my appearance. No, it does not.

Matter of fact, I think there are lots and lots of non-kinky-haired folks who would just LOVE to wear their hair in locs or a big woolly 'fro but who can't. So--again, this is my opinion--I see all of this as a choice and a preference.

My preference is to not have my look exchanged with that of the Fresh Prince of Bel Air in just one hour. Unless, of course, The Fresh Prince Look is the one I'm going for.

So let me just tell you--that was one rough hair day. And let me also tell you that I have not done a Spinning class since.

Surely have not.

So regardless of how many folks took offense to what Dr. Surgeon General said that day--she was on to something. And if the hair salon last week served as any kind of focus group on the subject, there's a whoooooole lot of black women who ain't even mad at her for addressing the topic.

Whew. The more I type, the more I realize what an enormous topic this black women and black hair situation can be. Stay with me. .  . .this is important stuff.

Alright. So somebody, I'm sure, is reading this and thinking, "Huh? How difficult can it be to wear a hairstyle like yours? It's a finger-snap long and brushed down onto your head!"

Well. . . .sounds like we need another teachable moment, don't we?

So here is how my hairstyle works. I go to see my stylist who cuts my hair every two weeks. My natural hair pattern is wavy-kinky and would never ever lay flat and straight to my head without getting it chemically straightened. Every few weeks, my stylist applies a chemical relaxer (what sistas refer to as "getting a perm") to the areas of new growth which, with hair this short, occurs more often than those with longer styles. But it doesn't just stop with getting my hair relaxed and cut. After that, using the right products, my stylist molds my wet hair down to my scalp with something called "wrapping foam" -- which is kind of similar in consistency to mousse. Next comes paper strips that hold down the edges and just like a cake, I'm then popped into the oven.

Or under the dryer which, at the salon I go to, feels exactly like an oven sometimes.

After that, my hair is stick straight and flattened on my skull. The next step is getting it curled. Yes--curled--with a small flat iron (the top, not the edges.) No. My hair is not wet-and-wear. No. I cannot jump into a pool on a whim and then look remotely like I prefer to look without the aforementioned process taking place.

So what happens for the rest of the week, you ask? I'll tell you (hell, I've told you this much, why not?)  Using my silkiest scarf, I tie my hair under it at night. The following morning, I take off the scarf and VOILA! My look is maintained. Pretty much until the next time I see my stylist -- or some water-- whichever comes first.

So pretty much? You spend the week or two avoiding moisture to your head. Which means, if you sweat profusely in your scalp with exercise, this moisture-avoidance thing could lead to a major discouragement against a good, hard workout.

Yeah, Dr. Surgeon General. You betta preach.

So what's a kinky-wavy or kinky-curly or straight-up kinky-haired sista to do?

Well, there are options:

One is to be a billionaire like Oprah and have a team of folks ready and willing to reverse you back to the look of your choice every single morning after you workout. There's that.

There's also the option of not being a billionaire but deciding to throw vanity to the wind and just going ahead and jacking up your anti humidity dependent hair style for the sake of your health. There's also the in-between maneuvers like scarves, pomades, other makeshift fixes to make what you just jacked up presentable until you make it back to the salon.

There's that.

Then there's what I like to call "The Beyonce Option." This is where you have all of your real hair braided underneath a long blonde hair weave. And let's be clear--I ain't EVEN mad at Beyonce and am very much a fan. But I do fully recognize that blonde curly locks are not growing out of her scalp. (But mad props to the person who makes it look that way.) So with that option, you can work out all you like and then wet your sewn in naturally straight or loosely curl patterned hair all you like.

Mmmm hmmm.

We can't forget just rolling with what the good Lawd gave you. That's rocking a short curly fro or rocking some afro puffs. Individuals with these styles can and DO pretty much have wet-and-go hair. But ask any of the sistas wearing these styles and they'll tell you that it's ALL about the right products (which I have learned are NOT cheap or easy to find.)

My younger sister JoLai is an avid worker-outer. She got tired of dealing with her hair post exercise and finally just wacked it all off into a little natural style. Which works for her since this is the style she prefers and is one that makes her life easier. Yeah. It's a bold move. And it's one that works for her.

But, see, everyone isn't JoLai. And if they were, Dr. Benjamin would not have a billion-dollar industry's hair show to address over the topic of sistas, hair, and exercise. You with me? Good.

Whew.What else?

Locs! Yes, there's locs  as another option -- or what some know of as dreadlocks. (My loc-wearing sista-friends have informed me that the term "dreadlocks" is not the preferred term, so that's the last time you'll hear it from me.) Okay. The reason I didn't include locs with the last grouping is because locs are a major commitment and they are not simply wet-and-go. Yes. They can get wet without a full on debacle a la my Fresh Prince Spinning disaster. But. Wet locs are like heavy ropes that hold onto water and moisture. And drying them takes time.

Also. The people that you see with lovely, immaculate locs see professional stylists and put lots of work into keeping them that way. Otherwise they look like a giant 'fro with pole beans popping out of it.

Which is cool -- if that's the look you're going for -- kind of like Bob Marley.

But don't get it twisted (no pun intended)-- just because locs don't involve chemicals or heat, don't you think for two seconds that the time commitment is not substantial if you want them to look nice.

This look involved a process -- and the right products.

Oh and did I mention? Change your mind about locs and you pretty much have one option: SHAVE YOUR HEAD. Because once hair "locs" there is no easy way to un-loc it. (Yes there are rare caveats but I see that like tattoo removal--difficult and rarely completely successful. Being tired of locs almost always it means going from long and luscious to teeny-weeny-afro.)

Case in point:

And this is totally fine if you are ridiculously hot like Lenny Kravitz. But not so much if you are not.

Feel me?

Wow! Aren't you learning, like, SOOOO much right now? See, I'm a teacher, y'all. You don't have to thank me--this is what I do.

Yes. There's more.

Braids. Braids! There's all kinds of braids--which also provide you some respite from hair-consideration-prison if you are of the kinky-headed persuasion. Yes. This is why me and many of the other little African-American girls at your camps growing up arrived in. . .you guessed it. . .braids. It's also why every time you see Oprah on a trip somewhere away from her dream team she suddenly has her hair braided. It's what you do when you don't want to "fool with" your hair.

Yup.

First, there's cornrows. Simple, flat french braids platted flat to the scalp. Quick. Simple. And often doable at home or by your homegirl across the street.

Then there's cornrows with extensions. Synthetic hair extensions stay better than natural hair alone, so many people braid in some synthetic hair to avoid the fuzzy-wuzzy-bear head that occurs after one week of going au naturel.

Next, there's individual braids with synthetic extensions. Again. Even if you have long hair, the extensions . . .well. . .extend how long they last. And can give you more flexibility with the look of your choice. These braids can be teeny-tiny or rope thick. They can be braided all the way to the very end or just at half way with loose hair at the ends.

Oh yeah--and a lot of folks use human hair for all of these braids, too. Like retro-Beyonce here. These are especially helpful for those who want to wear their hair down and curly and who get the tiny micro braided styles. The "micros" (as folks call them for short) are also the bomb if you're trying to grown your hair out of a short style and aren't keen on a full weave. I grew my short hair--and my relaxer-- out during my pregnancy with Zachary--with the help of micros. (Only to wack it all off again.)

Me with my "micros"

Which reminds me.

The black folks will be like "whatev" but everyone else--did y'all know that there are salons that braid hair all day and that's it? Where you can just walk in and point at the wall and say, "This" and then get your hair braided all up lickety split? And I say "lickety split" because while the braiding salon part may NOT sound unusual to you, many reading this have never actually gone inside of one, let alone sat down as a client.

This is why you have me in your life. To share these things with you. Heh.

The reason they are able to do it lickety split is because as many as THREE people might be braiding your hair at once. Mmmm hmmm. So just imagine your head bobbling all over like a pinball with three women tightly plaiting your hair in different directions. As well as talking about you in a language you don't understand.

Yep. And guess what? You can drop by to have them re-do just the EDGES when they start growing out and looking crazy -- OR even pay to just have them take them out for you. And trust me, people. This I know from personal experience.

Bananas, right?

So you tell me? Are you mad at the Surgeon General for bringing this up? Hmmph. I ain't.

Oh. Shoot! I almost forgot something else. Pressed hair. There are women who have opted NOT to chemically straighten their hair who instead get it washed and blowdried into a big woolly Chaka Khan-esque blow out. Then, using a flattening iron or an old school hot comb it is beat down into silky submission--if that's the look you are going for.

So. Since I keep bringing up Oprah, let me just use her as yet another example. So Oprah wore her hair relaxed forever, as in this picture above. Going through that process I described before nearly every day. Which sounds horrific but is true. When she wasn't on a trip wearing braids, she was pretty much making certain that her stylists were always nearby in the event of a Spinning class or some other catastrophe. Then she evolved to wearing a weave. Yep. A weave. This meant that all of her REAL hair was cornrowed down and some human hair had been sewn to those braids. Yep. Oprah rolled with this for a couple of years (see below.)

fuzzy wuzzy roots are often a weave-giveaway

Then, in the final season, she suddenly emerged with a whole SLEW of hair that she let Chris Rock run his fingers through to prove on national television was "all hers."

But all the sistas were like, "Oh, okay. Her hair must've grown while she had it braided all that time with that weave."  Yep.

She also grew all of the chemically relaxed parts out, too. This means that now her stylists were straightening her hair with heat only instead of heat and chemicals. And for those who wonder what the advantage of doing one or the other is, I'll quickly tell you that unrelaxed hair is generally "healthier" appearing, softer, and silkier when worn long. But. Get caught in the kind of weather that we had last week (misty-spit-like rain) and you will be reversed 100% back from silkiness to Chaka Khan Chaka Khan. Or more like the Jackson 5, depending upon your curl pattern. Which AGAIN is only an issue if you DON'T prefer to wear your hair in a natural style. (This is where the relaxer has its advantages.)

And lastly, let me answer a question that someone else asked me recently.

"So does Halle Berry go through all of this with her short hair, too? She makes it looks so effortless!"

The answer is most likely no. For two reasons. The first being that she is a multimillionaire with stylists on-demand. Hello? The second being that Ms. Berry's hair is a combination of African-textured and Caucasian-textured. What this usually equates to is naturally curly hair that, depending upon who you ask, can be the very best of both worlds. Not better--just a little easier to move between styles with--that's all I'm saying. Hair like hers is coarse enough to wear in some popular sista-styles yet soft enough to do what most of these things without tremendous amounts of heat or chemicals. Hair like this also returns into soft curls when wet -- not puffy afro-liciousness.

And afro-liciousness is FINE with me if that's the look you intended. But when it isn't, it can be frustrating.

So let's be clear--my hair is NOT like Halle's. No, it is not.

But with the right products and the right process it sure can seem that way.

What I do know is that she definitely has to curl her hair to make it look "red carpet ready."

Believe that.

And so. What was the point of all of this? Hell if I know. I forgot that about four paragraphs ago.

But.

You know I am all about us understanding each other. I really am. And hair is one of the biggest dichotomies ever between my culture and some others. For reals. But, see, I'm here to close that gap. At least a little bit.

Chris Rock tried with his "Good Hair" movie. But he kind of showed some of the uglier sides of sisters and our hair journey. For most of us, it really isn't ugly at all. It's a way we connect. A way we find community and talk about current events. It's a place for therapy and shoulders to cry upon.

And for me? It's memories so rich and so deep that it's hard to even explain them. It's my homegirl Bernetta threading beads onto the ends with tin foil stoppers after double dutching all day. It's my T'Renee telling me to hold my head still while tackling the little bitty "kitchen" hairs in the back of my head with a sizzling hot comb. It's sitting on a stack of phonebooks while my mom rolled my hair with sponge rollers. It's having hair so long-for-a-black-woman that people always accused me of having a weave or being "mixed with something." It's deciding to shear it down to my scalp right before taking a new job at Grady Hospital.

Man. It's so, so much . . . and a lot of my hair experience tells the story of where I'm from.

And for a lot of other women it does, too.

It sure does.

So I guess that's why -- though admirable -- our U.S. Surgeon General, Dr. Benjamin, has a hard row to hoe when it comes to trying to find a way to get black women to take a more. . .relaxed. . . .approach to their hair. Especially when it comes to exercise--or anything else that will undo a three hour hair-fixing process. She's got her work cut out for her.

Yeah, she does.

But we ain't even mad at her for starting somewhere. . . .

***
Happy Sunday--wait Monday, now.

Dang, that was a long one. Thanks for staying with it if you did. What y'all got on this?

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . I apologize in advance for putting this in your head.

Dream to dream.

I make it alone

When love is gone

Still you made your mark

Here in my heart

One day I'll fly away

Leave your love to yesterday

What more can your love do for me?

When will love be through with me?

I follow the night

Can't stand the light

When will I begin

My life again?

One Day I'll fly away

Leave your love to yesterday

What more can your love do for me

When will love be through with me?

Why live life from dream to dream

and dread the day that dreaming ends?

~ One day I'll fly away, lyrics by Will Jennings

__________________________________________

The problem with caring and going back to the bedside is that sometimes, after you've let me inside of your life, I care too much.

My heart is sad today over the loss of my patient who, I just realized, had become my friend.

My colleague-sister-friend, the profesora in Pittsburgh, always reminds me and all of her learners to go back to the bedside. "Go back,"she always says. "To listen and learn and teach and connect."

Go back.

And so I do. And I did. I went back to you. Again and again.

But the question is--what am I supposed to do when I go back and my patient isn't there? What do I do when my patient is gone for good?

I know. Sometimes patients fly away, despite our best efforts. All of us living dream to dream and dreading the day that dreaming ends.

I know the truth. The truth is that, through the lessons you have taught me, you're always there. And so, perhaps as a promise to you more than anyone else, I will go back. I will go back and listen and learn and teach and connect. To honor you and the privilege you gave me as your doctor.

So, for you, I will go back. Again and again.

And sometimes, again.

Because a lot of those dreams come true.
***
This is Friday. And this is Grady.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . .Lalah Hathaway sings her haunting version of one of my favorite songs--"One day I'll fly away."

Top Ten: The boys are back in town.

The boys are back in town from Camp Papa. They had an amazing time-- as you saw from their postcards-- but for all who've ever traveled anywhere . . . you know how good it is to be back in your own home and sleeping in your own bed.

People asked me a lot of questions about Camp Papa. A whole lot of questions.

Therefore.

Today I bring you:

THE TOP TEN ANSWERS TO THE TOP TEN BURNING QUESTIONS ABOUT, ASSOCIATED WITH, AND PERTAINING TO CAMP PAPA

You got questions? I got answers.

Wrote a little top ten about it. . . . like to hear it? Here it go!


#10

Q:  "Soooo. . . . let me get this straight. . . .your father takes your two boys. . . . . .for two to four weeks. . . .weeks! . . . .all the way in California. . . .every single summer? Say it ain't so!

A:  Yes, you have it straight and yes, it is so. Oh and in case you're wondering how they get there and back? One of the legs of the trip even involves Papa flying with them one way and Shugsie (my mom) flying with them the other.
  
Sh-weeeeeet.


#9

Q:  "Uuuuhhhh. . .if you don't mind me asking. . . uuuhhhh. . .like. . .how old IS your dad anyway?"

A:  Sixty eight. But a young sixty-eight.


#8

Q:  "Aren't you sad? Don't you MISS them? How can you be away from your children for that long?"

A:  Sad? Uuuhhh, yeah. . . that's a "no." Miss them? Yes, we miss them. But it turns out that if your kids are away from you with someone that you totally trust and if you let them out of your sight early on, it's a lot less traumatic than you'd think. Lots of folks freak out at the thought of even an overnight away from their children. Fortunately for us, our parents have stepped in from as early as we can remember. Also. . . just ask your family. . . back in the day many, many families sent their kids to their grandparents or family members in the summer. So look at it like this. . .we're just kicking it old school.


#7

Q:  "Like. . . what does your father DO all day with them?"

A:  Exponentially more than their mother does with them. But specifically he does the following:

• takes them to the beach.
• takes them to the pool.
• practices reading and writing.
• takes them to visit family and friends.
• takes them to amusement parks.
• buys them identical clothes.
• takes them to the 'Old Town Buffet' which is now "our favorite restaurant, Mom."
• watches them sleep
• snaps pictures of them
• takes them with him to exercise at the track
• frets the time with them coming to an end
• lets them eat animal crackers and fruit like crazy.
• teaches them new skills
• potty trains them when indicated
• anything else I put on the list of things I want them to come back knowing how to do. 

#6

Q:  "Like. . . .what do you and Harry DO with yourselves while they're away all that time?"

A:  We reconnect as a couple. We do things with spontaneity. We reconnect with friends. We go for walks through our neighborhood. We have a second cup of coffee in the morning. We hold hands. We do whatever we want without plans. Like ride roller coasters. And hang out in a swanky lounge listening to a deejay spinning thumping beats. We people watch. We laugh out loud. We stay up late. We sleep in. We spoon. We fall in love again. Also. . . .We marvel at how neat our home is. We sit side by side and watch HBO television shows with lots of profanity and humor that's inappropriate for children. We open bottles of wine on weekdays. And yeah. Of course we talk about our kids and work long hours on some days. But during that time that they're away, we especially do things that remind us that we are not just parents. I am a woman. Harry is a man. And we are a couple. . .a couple with kids, yes. But also two people who still like each other as friends, are still attracted to each other as partners, but who are happy to have a home that is usually filled with the laughter of our children.

#5

Q:  "Do you guys go away on a trip while they're away?"

A:  Not usually. Being home without the demands of pick ups and drop offs is more relaxing than you'd imagine.  Most of the time we re-explore Atlanta and have some local stay-cations. But Harry does usually slip away to spend a little time with his mother in Ohio. At which point I sleep spread eagle in our California King-sized bed with a mask on.

Not. Even. Kidding.

#4

Q:  "Doesn't your dad get tired? That sounds SO exhausting!"

A:  I have no idea how but no he doesn't. He loves every second of it and savors it to the last second. (And yes, he's crazy. I know you were thinking that question, too.)

#3

Q:  "How do the kids feel about it? Are they . . .like . . .happy to go or super-homesick?"

A:  This was their fifth year going so they are delighted to go. Like I said before. . . the earlier you start allowing them a little time away from you (and you away from them) the easier it is for them and you. Isaiah and Zachary now see Camp Papa as a natural part of their lives and an expected part of their summer.

Now. Papa is definitely more stern than Mommy, so that initially took some getting used to. He doesn't do a whole lot of repeating himself with children. But it doesn't take long for them to figure out how to do what they're supposed to do. I am always amazed at how excellent their listening ears remain fastened on when they first return!

#2

Q:  "How did this arrangement come about? How did you convince your dad to do this--and how did you get your spouse to be agreeable to so much time away?"

A:  I once had a medical meeting in California when Isaiah was like twenty months and Zachary was five months or so. My dad convinced me to bring them along and insisted that he would keep them in L.A. while I was in San Diego at the conference. When I got back, the dude had the bottles lined up in a row drying, food prepped and organized and had even called someone to borrow an "exersaucer" playground for Zachary. Nuts! The following summer he petitioned for more time and we obliged. (So nobody had to "convince" him.) We worked our way up to four weeks. And Harry has a great relationship with my dad but also knew how important it was to me for them to have his influence. I continue to be thankful for that every single day.

#1

Q:  "Can my kids come next year?"

A:  You'll have to talk to Papa about that one. But last I heard there was a waiting list.



Bonus question:

"Does Papa cry when they leave him?"

Bonus answer:

Does he cry? 

Every. Single. Time.

***
Happy Wednesday--again.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . .Thin Lizzy sings the song looping in my head all day. ..

The tops.

The spinning tops are home again and already playing with their spinning tops. 

And having them home again is the tops.

***

Happy Wednesday.

Say my name.

When I first returned to Grady after my wedding and honeymoon back in 2004, quite a few people were surprised when I announced that I had a new last name.

"Dr. Manning," I said without flinching. Not hyphenated. Not optional. This was my new name.

And let me be clear: I think taking your husband's name is a highly personal choice. I do not knock those who don't one single bit. Especially because the vast majority of these individuals are grown women who should be able to do whatever the heck they want to do with their last names.

But me? I chose to become Kimberly Manning. Harry said he hoped we could all just be "Team Manning." 

Maaaaan, please. That brother had me at "team." 

Ha.

So I'll never forget it. I walked into Grady that Monday and one of the first people I saw was one of my favorite senior faculty members, Dr. Michael L. He scowled at me and said, "What's this I hear about you changing your name? You've been here for three years! My brain is too old for new names."

"You'll adjust."

"Draper. That's it for me. I'm calling you Draper when I see you and that's that!"  And if you know Michael L. you can hear his voice saying this full of super-surly cantankerous-ness.

"And I will not answer you since that is no longer my name. I still have Draper genes in me but I am now a part of 'Team Manning.'"

Michael took his index finger and feigned a (quite warranted) gag and wretch. "Draper!"

We faced off. I held up my new badge in his face and shook my head. "You'll adjust, sir. You will."

And you know what? Despite his attempts otherwise, eventually he did. He adjusted. As did everyone else around me.

For whatever reason, it was important to me for those around me to respect my decision to take a new name enough to use it. Just as it's equally important to respect those who choose to keep their maiden names and NOT assign them the name of "Mrs. So-and-So." I was firm on that. So that meant that I quickly corrected accidental hyphenations and even those who persistently got it wrong. Never did I give in and simply say, "No big deal, Draper is fine." And for that reason and that reason alone, I feel sure that everyone began to see me as Kimberly Manning.

You know? It wasn't as much work as you'd imagine. Outside of Michael L., it didn't require much redirecting. So I learned something. I learned that people will first do what is easiest for them. But if you let them know your preference. . . it doesn't take long at all for them to get it.

So that brings me to today. Today I was in clinic working with two wonderful residents. Both speak Arabic as their first language although one hails from Syria and the other Libya. Mahmoud, who always works with me in Monday clinic, taught me how to say his name properly after I watched people referring to him using a different pronunciation than the one he used himself.

"How does your mama say it?" I asked.

"It's okay, MAH-MOOD is okay."

"But how does your mama say it? Does your mama say MAH-MOOD? In Libya?"

And Mahmoud laughed loud and hearty which told me my answer. "I want to say it how you say it. And how your mama says it. Teach me."

So he took his time and taught me. "Say MAH."

"MAH."

"Then make a tiny little sigh like this--'hah'."

"hah."

"Then say MOOD."

"MOOD."

"Now. Put it all together fast like this-- MAH-hah-MOOD."

So I practiced in front of him. "MAH-hah-MOOD."

"The 'hah' needs to be smaller. And not guttural or else it becomes a different name."

"MAH-hah-MOOD."

"YES! Good, Dr. Manning! Good, good!" Mahmoud exclaimed.

And exclaimed was the verb I meant to use because that is really what happened. So every time I see him, I try my best to honor the name his mama and his daddy and his culture gave him enough to say it right.

Mahmoud.

I see you.

The Syrian woman working with us today is also of native Arabic tongue and has a rather intimidating (to Westerners) last name when you first see it-- Dr. Abed Alwahab. I don't work with her often so usually her first name suffices. But in clinic, I always address the doctor as a colleague in front of the patients so I needed to get the proper pronunciation of her name.

"Pronounce your last name?"

"A-BED is fine," she replied.

"What do you prefer? Do you prefer to be called 'Dr. Abed?'"

She shrugged. "It's fine. I'm okay with that. It's hard for people to say my name, so it's okay."

And Mahmoud shot me a glance because he knew what was about to happen next (and because I'm ridiculously predictable.)

"Tell me how YOU say it. Teach me how to say it."

So she smiled for a moment and then sweetly answered. "A-bed Al-wa-hab is the whole thing."

"Dr. Abed Alwahab?" I repeated. "That's totally phonetic."

She nodded her head and chuckled. "Uuuuhhh . .. I guess it is." She seemed more than anything to be glad of the time I took to ask and that was enough for her.

But Mahmoud knew that I wanted to really know how to say it. Like she says it. Like the way it's really pronounced. So he chimed in. "Dr. Manning if you want to say it like it's pronounced in Arabic, it's more like AB-DAL-WA-HAB. But you say it fast. All together."

"Dr. AB-DAL-WA-HAB," I proudly copied him.

And don't you know they both squealed with glee and clapping? So I showed off and repeated it like ten more times until I had it mastered. I saw her pale face flushing. I could tell how much she appreciated the gesture--this simple gesture of respecting her culture and her name.

Abed Alwahab.

I see you.

I have a colleague at Grady who is of Nigerian descent. Her name is rather intimidating on paper, too, but honestly? When you get past what it looks like, you recognize that it, too, is also pretty much phonetic. So most who see my friend, Ugochi (OOH-GO-CHEE) butcher that part (which is her first name) and then -- perhaps unknowingly -- refuse to even TRY her last name.

Ohuabunwa.

I guess they are just too exhausted from trying to say her phonetic first name? Uh, yeah . . .okay. Ohuabunwa. They see it and cringe. Or instead of cringing they just laugh and say, "Dr. O."

Ha ha hell.

But here's the thing--she doesn't refer to herself that way. I'm pretty sure that much like I wanted to be called "Manning", it would likely be her first choice to be called by her name, too. So just like those residents, I asked her to teach it to me.

And she did. "OH-HWAH-BOON-WAH."

Phonetic. Ohuabunwa. Ohuabunwa. Ohuabunwa. I practiced it until I got it right. And vowed to never call her or refer to her as "Dr. O" ever again.

Yeah, Dr. Ugochi Ohuabunwa. I see you, too.

Sure do.

As you can guess by now, this whole ethnic name dismissal thing -- and married name whatever-ness -- is a bit of a pet peeve of mine. I think it's kind of disrespectful to not even attempt someone's name just because it looks foreign or different to you.

Which reminds me. Our clinic staff used to annihilate one of our former Grady chief resident's last name each week in clinic. Oh Lawd, it was comical. His last name, ACHTCHI (AAHSHT-CHEE), is of Persian origin -- which, okay, does involve an awful lot of consonants. And maaaaan . . . the clinic staff called him all sorts of things. . . such as:

Dr. ATTACHE
Dr. ATARI
Dr. APACHE
Dr. CHACHI (as in "Joanie loves.. . ")
(and my personal favorite) Dr. A-CHOO-CHOO

But you have to give them credit for one thing--at least they tried. They saw all those consonants and still took a crack at it. An amusing crack but a crack no less. They didn't just look at it and decide to say "pass."

In my opinion we shouldn't be able to just "pass" on people's names. We owe it to their mamas and their daddies and their grandmamas and their granddaddies to try to learn and use the one they prefer. And not just our lazy English default. In fact I think saying someone's name the right way is kind of like the nod. . . .it's your way of saying, "I see you."

Because really. . .  how smug is that? How smug is it to look at a person's name and then size it up as not worth your brain power to properly say?  Especially if you work with the person repeatedly? I don't care if you don't have bad intentions, either. Indifference--especially to cultural things--can sting. Trust me on that.

Man, I'm just saying.

In case you're wondering. . . you don't need an "ethnic" name to have a preference. Here's mine:

My first name is Kimberly. You can call me "Kimberly" or "Kim" if you're a friend or an adult who isn't my student or my resident. In that case, "Dr. Manning" or "Dr. M" is cool. I don't like little kids calling me by my first name--unless it's got a "Miss" in front of it. Just call me old school *shrugs* That's my preference. And don't worry--if you're grown, my kids won't be rolling up on you with a fist bump calling you by your first name either. Even if you insist.

No, ma'am, they will not and no, sir, I don't think so.

Yeah. So if things are super informal and we're pals, "K.D." is fine--which a lot of friends from college and med school still call me exclusively--in casual settings. (My middle name still starts with a "D" so it worked even after marriage.)

And speaking of more preferences. . . . when my name is printed somewhere, I strongly prefer "Kimberly" and not "Kim." Yep. And yes. It makes me happy when folks acknowledge this wish--especially the Kim-in-print thing.

You know why? It's simple. My mama has always preferred "Kimberly." Always. Not one time has my mother ever referred to me as "Kim" or written my name that way anywhere. Ever. So out of respect for my mama, I introduce myself as such and like to see it printed that way, too.

Yep. That's my preference. Which tells me that everybody has one. Even a grandmama who wants to be called "Grandy" instead of "Grandma." Yup.

No, I won't taze you or scream at you if you slip up or you don't know my preference. I'm not so self-important that I run around obnoxiously shutting people down for improperly using my (hello? common!) name.

But.

My point is this:  Don't hear someone introduce themselves as something and then just create something that you find easier. Especially in a formal setting. Don't just reach into the sky and opt out of the name that their loved ones chose when they were born. Don't.

At least don't with me. 

With me? When you see me, say my name.  My name. Or one I'm cool with--and not just one I've given up and decided to be cool with just to save you a few syllables. Yeah. Say my name.

And I promise --- if you teach me how --- that I'll do my very best to always say yours.

Mahmoud.
Abed Alwahab.
Achtchi.
Ugochi Ohuabunwa.

See? It's not hard to learn it all . . . . that is, once you decide.

***
Happy Monsoon Monday Night.


What are your thoughts on this? Weigh in, y'all.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . . some old school Beyonce and her crew. . .

Thoughts on a Monday morning.

Human Immunodeficiency Virus

I was sitting across a table from my friend and fellow Grady doctor a few evenings ago. This was simply some social downtime for both of us without much of anything on our agenda for the evening. I wish I could say that we talked about any and everything but work. That would be untrue, so I won't say that.

We did talk about other things but we talked about aspects of our careers--which to me is fine because we are both fortunate enough to love what we do. And when you love what you do for a living, all of it is a continuum, is it not?

I think so.

So anyway. This friend of mine works with HIV positive patients. And not just any HIV positive population. She works with a very challenging population of people who for many reasons both complicated and simply unfortunate have a lot of difficulty adhering to medical recommendations. And, see, this isn't exactly an extremely unusual thing for any of us Grady doctors--that is, the part about people having trouble sticking to what is asked of them--because we work in a sometimes resource poor and psychosocially challenging environment.

And no. I am not saying that this applies to all of our patients at Grady. I am not. I am just saying that the kind of poor and the kind of hard knocks I see at Grady Hospital are not like any I have seen at any other place I've worked. I've also never seen such resilience.

So, yeah, all of us Grady doctors rub our foreheads in frustration or shed a few tears here and there over ducks that just can't seem to get into a row despite our best efforts.

But. . . you know? HIV treatment is different. Because, see, the problem with giving you some antihypertensives and you not taking them is just that your blood pressure will just be high and that's that. But at least when we do give you the pill back, it will still work. But, again, HIV treatment is different. Different in that, unlike with high blood pressure, a little bit of treatment can oft times be worse than no treatment at all. The follow up and follow through require motivation and insight and ideally, some kind of support system. And you know? There are people out there who do have all of that and who slug it out until they win. There sure are.

Then there are the others. The ones who live on streets only blocks away from our HIV/AIDS Ponce de Leon Infectious Disease Program but who, on those streets, have all sorts of stones being hurled at them when they're out of there. The things like poverty, yes, but also drug strongholds and low literacy, too. And that sucks. Especially when you're one of the doctors on the front lines trying to reach those individuals like my friend.

See, with HIV you have to remember that it's a virus. And the treatment is aimed at smacking this virus down into some submission even if we can't yet "cure" it . . . technically. But the problem with that is it's a virus. And viruses and bacteria can be pesky and slippery and malleable. Give them a little taste of the treatment drug and then withdraw it? That gives it time to armor up and figure out a way to render your drug no better than a placebo.

Kind of like showing your hand in a game of spades or letting somebody see your stealthy 'Z' on a game of Scrabble.

The best antiretrovirals are the stealthy 'Z'. And sure. Thanks to technology and science, just like Scrabble there are a few more high value letters after your first line moves fail you. Kind of like dropping 'J', 'X', or 'Q'. But after you use those up, you're pretty much stuck with one-pointers or worse--a blank tile altogether.

So what do you do?

We were talking about how some HIV doctors are reluctant to treat any and everybody--especially high risk people who might not comply with medications. The idea behind that being that creating resistance is worse, possibly, than someone going untreated. It's always a catch 22, and no one has a perfect answer.

So I asked my friend, "How do you do it? What can you do?"

And my friend said, "Sometimes you break through. And when you do, it keeps you going."

And so I listened as she explained to me about us trying to figure out the whys when it comes to people not being on treatment instead of lamenting about people as if they are hopeless. Because those breakthroughs affirm that just when it seems that way, someone comes waltzing in with an undetectable viral load and climbing T-cells to prove otherwise.

And that keeps people like her in the game. Slugging it out with them.

I thought of her today because caring for our population can be tough sometimes. There are days where you feel like a person drying off a car during the middle of a rainstorm.

But then, sometimes. . . there is a breakthrough. The pieces come together. You drop your 'Z' on a triple letter row without using up all your tiles. You break through. The speed bumps get discovered and flattened down, the resources found, and the results are positive and right before you.

So we stay in the game. We keep our eyes on the ball and we stay in the game.

For some Grady doctors and people period, the game is harder than it is for others. But thank God for people who are hard wired for the hard games with their fast balls and major need for excellent hand-eye coordination.

And thank God for the breakthroughs that keep them and all of us in the game.

***
Happy Monday.

Browbeating.

 

 "Either work hard or you might as well quit. . . .

You can't touch this."

~ M.C. Hammer

Like, literally.

I need to see if I'm the only one who has dealt with the nonsense I'm about to waste your time with right now. (Consider that a warning if you were looking for a tender patient-doctor moment.)

Alright. You all know how obsessed I am with eyebrow grooming. That is, if you've been reading this blog for anything over a few months, you have probably been subjected to far more eyebrow shenanigans than the title of this blog suggests. But oh well. Eyebrows are important.

Here's why:

Too much brow, you know. . .you look like Bert on Ernie and Bert.

Too little brow you look like a hybrid between a surprised Pamela Anderson and Curious George--which is a hot mess.

And you tell me--what patient wants their doctor to look like either of these things? Ah hem. See? This serves as proof that eyebrows are quite relevant to this here blog. Quite. So there.

You still with me?

Okay, so check it. I was up in the eyebrow shop the other day--you know. . .the same one that my previously obtunded patient first told me about and the same one where the monobrow frat dude got his brows butchered in? Yeah. That one--exactly.

And real quick, I'll just explain to those who are new here a few simple things to bring you to speed. I go to this rather popular shop in Druid Hills where they pretty much focus on eyebrow threading. They also thread lips and random facial hair--which I do NOT get threaded, thank you very much. They'll also wax your lady parts if you are so inclined to allow such a thing, but me personally? I intensely fear that and don't fully understand its necessity. But I . .. errr. . .digress.

Antywho. There's a bunch of women in there threading eyebrows--five chairs on one side and five on the other side. Everybody can see everybody and that's just how it is. (Not if you get your lady parts waxed--they have some private rooms for that scary torture.)

So where was I? Oh. Yeah, I was in the shop. So the thing is. . . back in the day, my patient with the immaculate eyebrows turned me on not only to the shop, but also to the specific threader he recommended. I started going to her and went to her for at least six months. And, at first it was cool.

Until.

Something went awry. Like with her near vision or something--hell, I don't know. All I know is that she handed me that mirror one day and in my eyebrow I see a gash. A gash! One that I did not put there and one that made me look like some kind of rapper straight out of 1992.

Sort of like this:

Former rapper, Vanilla Ice

Okay. So. . .you know. . . I politely asked her, "Uhhh, it looks like there's a little bite out of my brows? Did that happen on accident?"  See? 'Cause I was trying to give her the benefit of the doubt. And me? I'll give a sister the benefit of the doubt the first time as long as you own it. Which she did not. She looked at me--like she didn't just slice me up--and acted like it was not EVEN her fault.

"Oh, your eyebrows just need to grow in a bit more," she said. She made this very innocent nod of her head from side to side that made it impossible to be mad at her. "Just use a bit of pencil until it comes in. We won't touch it, okay? It will be fine."

And that was how the okey-doke started between me and her.

So. This brings me to a side bar. I have this ridiculous need to be loyal to proprietors in certain businesses and am often too guilty to get what I really want because I feel bad. Like, how when I go to the Sweet Auburn Market near Grady where they have fifty trillion choices of places to eat but I always eat at the same place because I feel the need to be loyal to MiMi and Fred at the Metro Deli. Now. Would Fred or MiMi really give a crap if I went to the burrito place or to the Caribbean spot? No. It's just my own crazy.

So, yeah. I am guilt-ridden enough not to shift gears. Unless, of course, we're talking about my eyebrows.

And so. I gave her a couple of more chances. And they came out sort of like this:

Rapper, Soulja Boy

 And like this:

Except on my eyebrows instead of the side of my head--which I am not fully certain she wouldn't have gone for if I wasn't paying attention.

Lawd.

Not. Even. Exaggerating. (That much.)

So, finally, I just had to call it quits.

But here's the problem. Clearly that meant finding an entirely different salon since I couldn't possibly just switch ladies.

Uhhh, could I?

Well. I tried a few other spots. They didn't butcher me up like her but they just weren't as great as the lady across from my lady in the salon I'd just left. So seriously? I fought the good fight, y'all. And finally, after a four month hiatus, I slipped back into the original salon to go to the lady-across-from-my-lady that I'd been sizing up before my departure.

Now.

Here's what's crazy. I had the nerve to act all brand new like I'd never even been there before. So I come in the first time and sign up for new-and-improved-lady. And let me tell you. Unlike the slicer-dicer lady I'd left, she was not in need of reading glasses so she did a fine, fine job. And I got up from her chair, paid, and dipped like it wasn't nothing. I commenced to do that every two weeks for the next several months.

Mmmm hmmmm. Sure did.

Which reminds me. CLEARLY this is a striking cultural difference between sista-girl salons and salons run by those of other cultures. Because had this been my current hair salon, the minute I sat my behind down in that chair, SOMEBODY--even if it wasn't my stylist--would have qua-wickly called me  out on it. Quick, fast, and in a hurry.

Kind of like this:

"Dag! Why you ain't in SO-AND-SO's chair? Wha's that all about?"

Or better yet--this exact same sentence would been said directly to my original stylist with me in earshot. Mmm hmmm. But this wasn't a sista-girl hair salon, so in addition to not being able to purchase a homemade dessert, I was also not bothered by anyone for my disloyalty to my original threading lady.

That is, until the other day.

So I came in and for whatever reason, the spot was empty. Which is super unusual for this place because normally the wait is so ridiculous that the former lady couldn't really even notice what the heck I was doing. But this day, the worst case scenario finally happened.

Picture it. Ten chairs. Only five threading ladies there that day. Only a few clients. I walk in and sign up quietly for my new-and-improved-lady. The spot is usually first come first serve. And so. Of the four other people there, all of them are ahead of me and get called to other aestheticians/eyebrow ladies.

Cue the tumble weeds rolling by, old western showdown music and me sitting all alone in the waiting area.

So the check in dude (it's a dude, I'm not sure what that's about) he calls my name. "Kimberly!" So I walk over and dude is like, "Your lady has to wax somebody's lady parts. It could take a while." And okay. Maybe he didn't say "lady parts" but you get the picture.

So I said, "Okay. I have a book." Which I did.

But he said, "Well, you can go to SO-AND-SO right now and have no wait. She's very popular."

And YES, I could attest to her popularity, but the problem is that she needs some +2.0's before coming anywhere near me. Last I checked, she didn't have any. So I said, "That's okay. I'll wait."

And he just shrugged like "whatev" because that's what the dude at the eyebrow shop does all day. Mmm hmmm. But that's a whole different story.

So yeah. I go back to my lonely seat and I swear to you they must have locked the door to other clients because it was ME sitting alone and HER the slicer-dicer lady in her chair idly waiting for some business.

And those who go to this place DON'T bother asking me which lady because I will NOT tell you.

So I sit. And so does she. Like fifteen full minutes goes by which further affirms my refusal to get my lady parts waxed in a secret torture room.

Finally, the worst thing ever happens. Yep. She made eye contact with me.

Gasp!

I offered her my very best "we don't know each other" smile--which she was not buying AT ALL. So she smiled sweetly and said, "How've you been? I haven't seen you on Fox 5 lately. Do you still go?" I swear to goodness, y'all. . .it seemed like it was in that slow motion, garbled, sound that records used to make when you spun them with your finger or unplug the record player. (You pre-Thriller babies don't know nothin' 'bout that.)

"Uhh. . .who me?"

She nodded. And kept looking straight into my fuzzy eyebrowed face.

Doooohhhh!

She raised her own perfect brows (which clearly someone else was doing). I think that meant "HELL YEAH I KNOW WHO YOU ARE, YOU TRAITOR!"

And I said, "Uhhh. . .errrr. . . I just go to Fox here and there now. Uuuhh... .yeah. . I'm good." And quickly dropped my head back into my e-reader praying to the heavens that she did not say another word. No such luck.

"You used to come to me, no?"

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!! STOP TALKING TO MEEEEEEEE!!!!!

LAWD. Do you know I'm such a dork that I acted like I had to THINK about whether or not I used to go to her? Me, who remembers everything from the freckles on someone's nose to the hair on their chinny-chin-chin had the nerve to wrinkle my nose and furrow my (fuzzy) brow like I wasn't sure?

And you know she was probably like, "B@&*CH, PLEASE!" (which, by the way, is exactly what someone would have said in my hair salon had the same thing went down.)

So I looked all sheepish and said, "Uhhh, yeah. . .I think . . .you did do me a couple of times . . .yeah. . .I think."

YOU THINK? CHILE PLEASE!  (That's what her expression said. As well it should have.)

"No. . . you came to me several times, I think. You have two little sons and you are a doctor."


KILLING MEEEEEEE!!!

I was praying for the new-and-improved-lady to come back from the lady-part-waxing-torture-tomb to rescue me. No such luck.

Gulp.

"Wow, you have a good memory." That was my lame answer.

Please end this now. Please end this now.

She leaned over the armrest of her chair and asked the unthinkable. "Why you stop coming to me?"

Really? Really.

And she just held my gaze, refusing to let a sister off the hook. Pain. Full.

So she looked. And I looked. And she waited. And I waited.

Finally I jumped up out of that chair and started pacing all around with my hands waving all crazy-like and answered her:

BECAUSE!!! YOU MADE ME LOOK LIKE VANILLA ICE AND SOULJA BOY REPEATEDLY! BECAUSE YOU NEED READING GLASSES SO THAT YOU CAN SEE WHAT YOU'RE DOING!! BECAUSE YOU BLAMED ME FOR MY EYEBROWS WHEN I NEVER TOUCH THEM ONLY YOU!! BECAUSE I'M SCARED OF YOU AND YOUR THREAD!! BECAUSE THE OTHER LADY DID NOT MAKE ME LOOK LIKE IT WAS HAMMER TIME!!!

Relax, people. I didn't say that.

But I almost did. For real.

Instead I just said, "Oh. . . heh . . . you're so popular and busy. I decided to start seeing one of the newer ladies."And seeing as every person in the world has a bit of vanity in them, this seemed to satisfy her.

That, or she decided it wasn't even worth pursuing further. Thank God she didn't either.

So yeah.

That's what's going on with me outside of Grady.

Has anything like that happened to y'all? Have you wanted to switch hairstylists or eyebrow ladies or (insert-your-thing-here) and struggled with it? Did you actually go through with it? Was I wrong for switching ladies in the same salon?

Maaaaan, this is important stuff, people. I need y'all to weigh in.

Yawn.


That's all I got for now. Can't you tell I'm still on stay-cation?

***
Happy Saturday.


And some absolutely perfect ridiculousness I found when looking for the song now playing on my mental iPod. . .MC Hammer's"Can't Touch This" -- accompanied by dancing eyebrows. You're welcome.