Irie Twists of Fate
Dreadlocks might be antennae to the universe, but they don’t make one a Rasta
~ By DONNELL ALEXANDER ~
My hair’s a mess right now, fuzzy when they might look tight and tidy. At night, just before sleep sets in, I usually dig a few fingers into the tangled mass. The thought here is just to lop off the whole thing. But don’t get it wrong. I like my crop of dreads a little raw. Sorta Lil Jon on a Brian Grant track. The woman in Baldwin Hills who twists my hair would like to see me every six weeks, but that regimen is somewhat too Brokeback for the kid. LaLa, my backup dreadlock caretaker, accuses me of going too far the other way with my laissez-faire hair care. The Could Be Homeless Look is what she accuses me of cultivating. “Who cares?” I usually tell LaLa. Certainly not me. Thirteen years ago, when the sides of my dome were shaved in homage to Posdnuos’s and Fishbone’s first famed hairstyles, I hadn’t foreseen these concerns. Those nubby little locks of dread then taking hold were about having, as Allesa of Baldwin Hills says, antennae to the universe. Never having to worry about the crop, just having it handy as a fortune-divining talisman, was part of my personal ethos. My locks simply were. One day last fall while the August sun was wildly overstaying its welcome, a Rastafarian in – of all places – Highland Park called out my way as I walked down a residential street. “Dread!” he shouted. I was a good 20 feet beyond him. If the man hadn’t had dreadlocks, I probably would have blown him off. Instead I turned around and greeted dude. Then I asked him what the deal. “Take care of your locks,” the older gentleman said, pointing at my dry head. “You have a crown.” *** Marcelene of Brooklyn, the Guyanese stylist who schooled me that Jesus’s “hair like lambs’ wool” was actually dreadlocked, used to trim my hair judiciously, regardless of my protests. She just found a mess like this to be an affront that reached beyond fashion’s boundaries. I let her do what she felt she had to do. And the former friend who insisted I apply olive oil to my hair after washing? I went along with that, dutifully, but not for any reason related to spirituality. I do not believe Haile Selassie was God in the flesh. There, I said it. And whenever I go out with a dread-o-phile – believe me, their numbers are bananas – there can be as much blowback from my alarming pooh-poohing of Marcus Garvey’s proclamation and relative lack of earthy spirituality (I-rie? Whaddaya talking about? I just took a shower!) as there often is from my habits of hard work and ´´ only intermittent possession of Mary Jane. The number of folks walking around with dreadlocks and no ital diet or, for that matter, even fundamental understanding of Rastafarianism’s tenets are mad legion. (Most of the Jamaican dreads living in northeastern America are fronting, too, but that’s another article.) We’ve probably been the majority of wearers for more than a decade. If you’re thinking all those artists and academics out there are rooting for Babylon’s fall in any sort of organized, concerted fashion, you’ve got another dread in mind. That would be your daddy’s Rasta. Personally? I can only stand to hear so much reggae. (Point of clarification: I can’t wait for metaphoric Babylon to fall; I’m just all over the place about it. Soon as I finish this swine sandwich, we can have that conversation.) Leading the way in the nondenominational sporting of dreadlocks have been popular artists and – surprisingly – lately, high-profile athletes. The pioneers such as former L.A. Lakers forward Brian Grant and University of Texas running back Ricky Williams kept some sense of nonconformity about their bearing, but one never really got a grip on how deeply they adhered to the spirituality associated with their hairstyle. (Although dreadlocks predate Rastafarianism by a few thousand years.) Their way was suspect, but okay. Within the past three or four years, though, it seems every kid from rural Georgia who runs the 40-yard dash in under four-and-a-half seconds enters the NFL with kinky hair like this. And dreadlocks seem to be about something else. The play Section 8, locally produced in 2004, suggested the new statement dreadlocks make is about the desire to boff white chicks. Yeeeeaaahh, as Lil Jon would say, Okaaaay! *** A lot of people hate it when I talk like this. But, you know, fuck ’em. The guy who first really made me want to lock my hair was this cat I saw on CNN, back during the network’s earliest days. He was some sort of architect or lawyer who had been harassed by five-o while walking through Beverly Hills and had filed suit against the city. As much as I thought how his hair flowed was cool – I was chillin’ in Ohio with the fly-ass jheri curl at the time – it impressed me that this guy was as transgressive a sight as could be imagined. He had on a good suit and spoke with amazing eloquence. This was the spirit that moved me. Which brings us back to that Rasta in Highland Park. He caught me on the downslope of a yearly ritual called I’ma Cut My Hair. It’s not because my hairline has begun creeping back as much as it is how my mane reddens every summer. Every bit of dust that won’t wash out also becomes visibly heightened, and the Could Be Homeless Look carries into winter. I have enough problems without looking homeless. If my professional popularity dips a tad more than usual, I flirt with actual homelessness. So I listened to the dread, started wearing an array of knit hats. Some of them are colored pretty fruity, which forces me to contend with that whole Brokeback business. (I still don’t carry the lovely leather man-purse my baby mama got me, ’cuz I’m not trying to push things.) Which I think makes me deeper. More spiritual, even. Another Rasta, this one on the MTA, explained to me last month that, yes, the dreadlock paradigm is changing, told me a lot of folks out there simply just don’t know. But I know. Back in the day, I used to chill out in Queens with the elder Jamaicans who would, by the dozen, sit sippin’ for hours on the roots drink called Zion. No one in the room was toking up, none of us was singing island songs (or even Island songs) or bringing up Haile or Jesus Christ. We just talked about the state of relationships, world politics, et al. The role of the spirit was implicit. Energy inhabits, takes whatever form a person allows it to. Make no mistake, I’ll see my locks ladies as often as money will allow. There’s something unbelievably sensual about my hair pulled tight in their hands. It’s so intimate. It reminds me of something I can’t quite place … reminds me of … oh, yeah, that. See, I told you my reasons for how I wear my hair aren’t on the traditionally spiritual up-and-up. But it’s my universe, and I’ll experience as I like. If only LaLa was here right now, sparking up a fatty with her strong, soft hands. Praise Jah.
No comments:
Post a Comment