AI-Generated Image: In comic book style, people sit around on the grass laughing and having a good time. It is a lovely sunny day and the three people in focus have wide smiles with wild laughter gushing from their faces. The main characters one zoom in on are a woman and a man. The man is wearing a gray top and the woman is wearing a yellow blouse.
Carly came home from a party she and her boyfriend were naughty no condoms were used he soiled her new shoes why did she go to that darty?
Have you gotten your copy of my new book: a collection of serial tales & flash fiction, Séduire (E-BookandPaperback) yet?
You’re writing your autobiography. What’s your opening sentence?
My original due date, relayed to my teenage mother, was April 1st, however, I was two weeks late–while still in the womb, I knew I wouldn’t be anyone’s fool, and I was right.
I tell people all the time about how I was two weeks late coming into this world, but I’ve been on time ever since. And I make it my life’s work to NOT be anyone’s fool.
If I could dodge an April Fools’ due date, I can avoid being a habitual fool for anyone.
I have never traveled by way of Spirit Airlines, and judging by all the funny videos about their business and customer service or lack thereof, I am not missing much. LOL!
I had a fantastic break–it was much needed! I hope every single one of you has enjoyed this week, and that you’ve learned something new, hugged a stranger, loved on and embraced a family member or two, and read until your heart’s content. I am back, honey bunnies! What did I miss?!
Have you gotten your copy of my new book: a collection of serial tales & flash fiction, Séduire (E-Book and Paperback) yet?
Why are we here with this topic? Well because, I am sick and tired of seeing young women well past the baby stage with baby hairs casually laid across their forehead and edges in almost every hairstyle dreamt up by current and trending stylists who want to keep this God-forsaken look alive when it should be dead, eulogized, buried, and left ALONE!
I said to my best friend and cousin in a text message the other day: “I really, really hate those stinking fake baby hairs these young women have in their hairstyles. I cringe every time I see it. *Sighs*” My cousin, ever the optimistic, responded, “It’s a fad. This too, shall pass.” It’s a fad that doesn’t need to be a fad that makes absolutely no sense.
Back in the day when this style was IN, circa the 70s, 80s, and 90s, little girls and young women actually had baby hair or slick hair with which to lay their edges and forehead. These young women are creating curly Qs and baby hairs where they just aren’t supposed to be and doing so in such a way that requires calculation and geometrical tactics, and I just have to shake my head. Exhibit A: feast your eyes on this YouTube short of someone teaching her audience how to apply baby hair to a hairstyle:
I should have prefaced this by saying if this is your thing . . . do you, boo. Please, do you. There are a ton of other things I could be soapboxing about, but this here is the hill I chose today, so here is where I stand. I love people expressing themselves in every way they choose, but what I do not like are folks grabbing hold of something they think is new and running that thing into the ground without being keenly aware of why that thing existed in the first place.
The crush’s daughter loves this baby hair trend. I told the crush how I felt about it and she is in agreement. Her response was, “You know these kids gotta do what they see others do. Makes no sense to me, but that’s how it is now.” And yes, that is HOW it is now. There is no originality, no uniqueness, no want to build and create something that may not have happened before or to at least put such a spin on that thing that folks believe it has never occurred before.
I am going to segue briefly to the fact that I encountered a clerk at The UPS Store a few days ago while mailing a package who could not read cursive. I spelled my name, my mother’s name, the addresses, etc. And she still did not type the info correctly into the system. I finally had to pull out my driver’s license, hand it to her, and say, “Please just look at my license and get my information. I’ll repeat the recipient’s info momentarily.” I was so frustrated with this child that I had to take several deep breaths when exiting the store. This is what happens when cursive and penmanship are removed from schools.
The younger generation has a foreign language before them when one writes in cursive. It’s perplexing to me, and I will never understand it!
Back to the baby hair issue. My godsister had a style with baby hairs when I went home to Savannah, GA to visit this past April, and it took everything in me not to word-vomit all over our brunch every time I looked at her. She’s in her 30s. WHY, boo?! WHY? LOL. She asked me a few times, “You okay,” and mildly, each time, I’d say, “Yeah, I am good.” Because my food was too good to allow the likes of someone else’s hair to ruin it and the mood was far too great for me to actually dampen it with something over which I have no control. I wasn’t going to rain on everyone’s parade. I know when to reel it in and act accordingly. But boy was it hard!
It is becoming evident that my generation is old and bold and the younger generations behind us are young and shunned. We can survive with little to nothing, display ingenuity when it most requires it, have lived through getting home before the streetlights came on, know what VHS and cassette tapes are, and can probably quote 75% of the movie The Color Purple (1985) without hesitating or flinching.
If you are a habitual baby hair applier, I wish you peace. I hope you find the hairstyle that fits perfectly with your face and head, and that you do not continue to beat a dead horse that should have never been resurrected. And if you intend to carry this trend deep into 2025, at least, use gels and spritzes that won’t push your hairline back five years from now. Think of your forehead, children . . . think of your edges. What have they ever done to you to deserve this?
*No baby hair was harmed, maimed, or brutally criticized outside of this post. Don’t come for me, please.*
HAPPY NEW YEAR, beautiful people! If you can’t laugh, you can’t live. Peace and blessings. And may the new year be most kind to all of you.
“Do gerbils love?” Paul pondered as he spent what could be his last moments breathing next to the love of his life, Sophie. The two were a pair of hopeless half-wizards and even though their hearts were recently connected, it felt like they had been in love for centuries.
Maybe in a past life? Maybe in a past spell?
Whatever it was, Paul stood there with an invisible rope binding him in place–the slightest movement was an act of severe futility. Would Humphrey turn him into a gerbil, an elephant, a gecko, or the latest edition of Better Homes & Gardensmagazine?
Whatever he was going to be, he wished for the ability to love. And to continue to love Sophie, too. But what would she be? If Humphrey could turn them into anything under the natural sun, what spell would he conjure up for his beloved Sophie?
The dank air of the firm’s office swirled around the hostages as Humphrey laughed maniacally from his throne. A snap of his finger . . . a flush of his lips . . . a slap of his left hand to his right ear and then . . .
*POOF*
They would all waddle like ducks waffling around for a place to find comfort.
As he snapped back to life from his daydream, the bulky image of Humphrey approaching him increased in size. His jowls hung viciously on his face, and his razor-sharp teeth barked out of his mouth.
He gawked at Paul with the intent to do bodily harm and whispered, “Now, where were we, you insolent fool?”
“Gerbils,” said Paul. “Gerbils . . . do they love?”
I am currently reading, The Portable Door by Tom Holt, and a particular phrase in this book (the title of this story) shook something alive in my brain. What you have just read is the product. I am nearly done with the book, and I cannot wait to write the review for it, too!
It was a humid Sunday morning, and I was washing my hands at the sink in the women’s bathroom of my then church. A fellow usher/acquaintance came thundering through the door.
Her glasses were tilted slightly, her forehead had several beads of sweat congregating on it like the people in the pews of the sanctuary. She huffed and puffed and nearly blew the walls down, and then loudly said to me . . .
“Tre, girl!!! Help me!”
Before I could respond, this acquaintance lifted up her form-fitting black dress to her hips and tugged at a modern-day corset that seemed to be making its way down a path it was not supposed to go.
I stood there for a few seconds with wet hands, perplexed by this human who was exasperated and waiting for my assistance. I quickly dried my hands.
This was new territory for me. So many questions were running through my mind. What do I do? Where do I start? Should we just remove this thing altogether?!Why is she even asking me for help?!
So, I did what any nervously questioning human being would do. I slowly stepped behind her and said, “What do I do?”
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She began pulling her dress up even further and then called instructions out to me military style. This isn’t the kind of company I’d normally keep and at this intimate level of care, I worried that I was going to do something wrong.
“Pull the Spanx down, while I shimmy out of it.” Everything floated through my highly anointed yet VERY bisexual mind as I listened to this attractive woman in obvious discomfort instruct me on how to remove a conflicted piece of clothing from her voluptuous and striking body.
DO WHAT?! YOU WANT ME TO DO WHAT?!
I coughed to signal nervousness and then cleared my throat. “You want me to do what now, Jewel?!”
“Pull it down while I try to shimmy free. But don’t pull at it hard, pull slowly. Be gentle. Don’t tear the sides.”
UM . . .
This was my first real encounter with Spanx. The way my brain works is I began wondering why she put this God-forsaken thing on in the first place. Let your curves be free, love . . . is what I truly wanted to say. But she was wearing a form-fitting black dress, in church, during the summer months, and maybe there was something beneficial I didn’t know about to this torture.
I tugged at what felt like leather hide for minutes while she wiggled her hips feverishly to escape the clutches of the manufactured bone-crushing fabric. What seemed like forever, but was probably more like five minutes later, she was free.
She pushed her glasses perfectly on her nose, smoothed her dress down, tidied up her bun, folded the Spanx up and slapped them in her purse, then called to me . . . “Ooh, Tre! Girl, you are a lifesaver! Thank you!”
I shook my head in total disbelief but I didn’t want to be rude. “Cool beans, Jewel. You’re most welcome.”
After she left the bathroom, I washed my hands again, stared at the mirror, and said to myself, “What in the world just happened?”
A fellow usher/acquaintance was being tortured by a piece of clothing, and well . . . it was my calling to help.
*Names changed for the purposes of privacy and respect.
A Cornered Gurl 
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