Allow me to introduce myself... - by gnrlstudies

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Allow me to introduce myself... - January 2007

A Black Woman's Hair

January 22nd 2007 01:44

I use a small amount of products on my hair and sometimes it astounds me to when I see people going in and out of hair salons looking, most of the time, as horrible coming out as they did going in. But don''t get me wrong, Detroit hair stylists usually show up and show out whenever it comes to creating masterpieces of hair. But why is is so hard to keep it simpe. Keep it Dark and Lovely. But I feel that this is too hard for some women, that are trying to uphold a certain image. An image of false sophistication or of misrepresented youth. Isn't it easier to just maintain yourself, just as god made you? Sista's, permed and fro'd, declare your theatrical debut as yourself. Please. And if you refuse this offer. If you decide that it is better to fry and die your hair until it is appears to be the underside of a tumbleweed, then do what you gotta do. But don't make girls with dreads and braids feel as if they aren't keeping up with the times. Go back black, cuz that's where its at.

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Posted By: gnrlstudies - Category: Fashion

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If you're coming to Hague for me...don't honk!

January 8th 2007 17:47

I live on Hague St, and I am pretty sure that if you looked up the slang word ‘hood, in the dictionary you would probably be faced with a picture of the street signs nearest my home. We moved there about seventeen years ago, it wasn’t as bad as it is today. We actually had neighbors. Now we have a series of weather-like renters, who come and go as the wind blows. But I have grown accustomed to the area, and I don’t really mind walking the four or five miles to the main library and other surrounding cultural venues.
It is on some of these walks (the buses come in packs, every thirty minutes) that I come in contact with a wide array of people. Most of which would traumatize any other college undergrad. So far I’ve (in passing) conversed with recovering prostitutes, failed entrepreneurs, regular prostitutes, failed former drug addicts and lastly a few street pharmacists. Out of all of my acquaintances I have probably had more fun in passing with the street pharmacists. Who aren’t the gun slinging, pant hanging, curse slewing thugs that the media cracks them up to be. Of course they smell apprehension and can seek out a buyer without even trying, but all in all they are just like regular guys.

But back to the point that I was supposed to be writing about before I was distracted by the nice drug dealers. Oh, yes, dating with my father…. . If you’ve read my previous blog you’ll see that I have relocated to my parents home, and regressed myself to their regulations and rules. Devastating, I know. But what can I say; it seemed like a good idea at the time. I find that I do not stay in the actual house much, I find reasons to go to the mall, the library, the grocery store (which is hard because I don’t cook), wherever. My parents have a knack for dropping whatever they were originally doing searching throughout our full bi-level home until they found, say, me, and bug and nag until I loose if not my mind, then part of it. So, I leave. I walk, run, find someone to pick me up, whatever, I go.
I recently learned the trick to getting out of more questions that my parents have for me, having my ride text my cell before they arrive for one, this will allow me to cut my dad off from running to the door before I get there (he’s fast for 63) and yelling out that his daughter “doesn’t answer to honks, and that if whomever in the car wants to see his daughter, they need to show some respect and come ask her father for permission.” By this time my girls, in the car are cracking up laughing at the Bill Cosby look-a-like in blue joggers, a fitted sweatshirt, and long housecoat that used to call the DoubleTree home. With embarrassment striped up and down my face, I’d rush past him, screaming good-byes over “why do you always do this to me” looks at the man.
Soo, new rule, If you are coming to Hague, for me, don’t honk!!!

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Posted By: gnrlstudies - Category: Dating

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New Age, Same Curfew

January 7th 2007 03:04

I got word that all I needed to graduate was about three credits a week before my landlord asked me if I wanted to renew my lease. I was stuck in a dilemma. Should I pay $3500 in rent and $7500 in tuition all for three measley credits, or should I petition for a famed independent study and commute to and from Ann Arbor. Did I mention that I would be living for free, with my parent, on the eastside of Detroit.
Well, the decision made itself. After a little number crunching I decided to pack up and move out. The only obstacle was that I had to convince my parents, the starving artist and the formidable packrat, that I would be an excellent roommate. So, I laid down my argument completely, along with my requests. I wanted my sisters old room, no unnecessary disturbances until 9am, a television in my room, and no curfew.
I can't explain the joyous, bountiful, extremely happy laughter that my parents shared over my "little list". For the life of me I couldn't figure out what they found so funny, as a twenty-two year old woman, I was entitled certain rights, right? Even when it came to establishing those rights in the home of my parents. But they saw no such democracy, and forbade me the majority of my requests. I wanted to fight and scream, but that would contradict the "I'm a grown woman" standpoint that I had taken earlier.
Soooo, I decided to test the rules, and see where that got me. First one up, my own television. Completely unsuccessful. Next on the list, sleeping in. My battle with this was unnecessary, firstly because my retired father slept well into the day, and my self-employed mother had grown to like having her mornings to herself. My victory went unaccounted because there was never any real opponent. After gaining my sisters old room by default (it was the only room that my parents hadn't found anything to do with) I decided that my last move would be on the lines of curfew. In high school I had a curfew of midnight, my parents would lock the entire house down at that time, no one in and definitely, no one out. Now however, being 22, I wanted to have a fulfilling social life. I wanted to have the responsibility to finally be able to lock the house down at whatever time I decided to come home.
I built up my esteem, and roared my battlecry, "I'm going out!", my parents in their respective areas stared at me from atop a newspaper and a pair of knitting needles.
"You know what time we lock up." Its always bad when they speak in unison.
"Yeah, I might be a little late, but you don't have to wait up." A clever reply.
And as I closed the door behind me I heard what was to be their death defying blow,
"Oh, we won't."
I stalled at the top of our porch steps. What in the world was that supposed to mean?
I found out later that night as I stood in front of a plexi-glass screen door, contemplating what to do. Should I use my cell phone and pray that my parents haven't fallen so deep into dreamland, as well as disregard their "No one that really knows us would call after 9pm, so why answer the phone" rule? Or should I...I had no plan, I had lost the battle and the phone call that I was making was my concession.
"Dad, can you come let me in the house" I whispered sweetly.
"You promise to get home before lock down next time." He was waiting up.
"I...promise." Reluctant
"I'll be right down."

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