This is what they say about my hair: Brillo. Jew-fro. Nigger wool. Seriously, people: nigger wool.
Nice, right? Buncha fuckin low-lifes, right? No, I’m not at the junior high bus
My cousin Theresa, who I haven’t been able to look in the eye since the incident in fifth grade with my unwilling shriveled cock and her fingernail polish, is
I flinch, and my mother rolls her eyes. I say, “You can’t call yourself a hippie and use the N word, Mom, for fuck’s sake.”
“You call yourself a hippie, Denise?” my dad asks. I’m pretty sure he’s stoned.
“Niggerniggerniggerniggerniggerniggernigger,” she says. I’m sure she’s drunk. I snap.
“OKAY!” I shout over her mantra. “I will get my hair cut before the wedding.” This appeases them.
I will get it cut, and it will look nice for a brief moment in time… And then,