It’s my bestie’s wedding this weekend. It’s 3 hours away, an Polokwane. Accomodation has been booked. Bags are in various stages of packing. Outfits have been carefully chosen. Roadtrips with baby have been planned.
And so, as I emerge from my cocoon, the lipstick revolution having been completed, I gotz to get my hair did, guuuuuurl! Now, if you know me, you’ll know that I don’t care much for hair. I’m a wash and go kinda gal. Hence, the dreadlocks. All motivated by laziness.
But, apparently, one must “do” one’s hair for a white wedding. 🤔 All the style guru’s agree. I mean, it’s lights, camera, action, for this formal-dress affair!
I was more excited about baby’s outfit! Still am! She is gonna look so adorable! Back to my hair. Woah! This mission for straightness is a long and torturous one. My scalp is being singed in places I didn’t even know I had scalp. “You have to suffer for beauty”, says my sister/hairstylist. Aish!
Part of me wants to rebel against the Europeanisation of my hair. This idea that white is right and straight is fate. That hair is deeply political. Marra, the other part of me wants to look pretty for my bestie’s wedding. 🤔
“Look straight, ghel!”, instructs my sister. Ok, straight it is! Aluta continua!