In a fit of pure wee hour crazy, I cut my hair. Nothing too drastic, but a cut nonetheless. This post isn’t about the cut (more on that later this week), it’s about what I did after…
I wore a hat. Your initial reaction must fall along the lines of whoop-dee-doo. A hat. No big deal. But there are two factors that make this a more celebratory occasion; It was a beret, and left only to be worn when I’m wearing braids. My fro, in true fro form, always managed to bust it’s way through this hat like some caged beast. A disfunctional and wild mane, if you will.
And while I’m sure what I’m feeling at this moment will fade eventually, much like a new phone or a pair of shoes on Christmas Day, I’m letting the excitement of it all sweep me away while it can. Because, until you’ve had a fro, and one day, one single day, it does something.. anything, that you want it to do, it’s hard to understand.
So hears to not pretending that I’m french, but wearing a vintage french staple, passed down by my late-grandmother, anyway. Mostly because I finally can.
(photography by Juli Teitler for LaTonya Yvette