The Legend of the Flying Weave

she continued to soar past the jerk barrels and carcasses of Sainsbury’s shopping bags, even the thickest jam could not hold the mahogany and spice bundles. you must have seen her lace front drifting through Deptford Market, eyeing records, nyaming on barbeque wings with the pigeons but i swear to you, she did not land.

i.

the year was AD 2012 when she took flight, there are rumors she was set loose. i may be a rat tooth comb but my tail remembers every parting, sew-in, and bitch slap. like all great fables, hers began in a hair salon, in an exotic town called Woolwich. Rubicon cans and helium cannisters grew between pavements, no gold—nuff dashiki. Cheryl’s salon was the den for the angelic, chaka-chaka lashes flapped like bruck up moths, steam thugged its way out of machines then stushed into sistren’s thirsty scalps. these eternally baby-faced humans were sometimes shunned by other two-legged beings, yet despite ridicule they were worshipped, why else the Botox, silicone, and BBLs? oh we are in praise of the mashed cassava women, who braid their names in rainbow beads, protect their fros in Pink but are lamb-pattied between Vogue and criminal profiles. i worked for the chief landscaper who sculpted ebony hair, God’s favorite hiding place, was with her ever since she learned to scoop night in her cup then send men to goat heaven. my employer banned sulphur and ammonium from her palace, she cared for the wounded, those whose heads were gentrified by chemical relaxers and iron burns, like Ms Shanice.

ii.

Ms Shanice walked in, handed in her puffer jacket, and sat down with little botheration, she sucked her salt and pepper fingers with such finesse not a flake stuck to her lip gloss, a giraffe-tongue, red pixie wig poorly protected her crown, her 5mm wide neon hoops were the only defense from her unslicked sideburns juking out like chariot spikes. Ms Shanice removed her wig with more botheration, but where others saw a hot mess my boss lady saw fertile land and empty plots to decorate with olive and shea trigonometry. i parted her scalp with my tail, her hair grew in mawga bushes but i could hear her past, before the chemicals arrived in tubs with crack whore red for-sale labels, there were forests, dense upwards growth smelling of extra dark Jamaica, the living follicles remembered, i heard them singing the acid cadence when the first burning began, poor Ms Shanice, her rhinestone nails tried to itch out the ungodly but the stylist was busy chatting soaps. teething a territory is not a one-night expedition, it is years of negotiation and espionage, like so many other ladies with stolen crowns Ms Shanice did what she felt she had to do, her crown for an end seat at the table, and now it was time for a 28-inch 1b/27/P4 Remy.

iii.

all the ladies’ eyes witnessed the unpackaging, sass and goody fell from the net, my employer bounced them in her hand and held them to Ms Shanice’s face, Ms Shanice smiled as though she had bobby pins clipping her lip edges to her molars, she preached, this look was her promotion, no more disrespect from Ms “your food smells,” the choir agreed, except for my boss lady and the weave staring with hopeful mourning. chunky and thin canerows intertwined, the tentacles of octopus learning to make love, the weave had never seen a design quite so elaborate, she questioned her purpose, was she really protecting heaven’s gates or was she hiding heaven’s gates from the wutlass? every now and again my tail was needed to loosen the braids during the procedure, usually the Yaki Ponies, Marleys, X-pressions, Passion Twists love this part, but during the sew-in, the weave heard the follicles’ songs, bredren melting beside them, the weave kept slipping from my employer’s fingers. she blamed the oils, i knew better. if Ms Shanice was going to keep this weave on she would need gorilla glue and duct tape. full bodied and sheened, Ms Shanice sashayed and posed, confidence looked good on her.

iv.

when a woman receives a successful new hairdo her next engagement is an event, that same night Ms Shanice attended the “yes goody” parade—Passa Passa Fridayz, peacock blues, move from me nuh pinks, the saints were dripped in criss swag, fishnets and heels challenged each other for territory whenever the DJ reloaded. liquored up with her troupe Ms Shanice organized her thighs into respectable ditties, this was until the horn of lawlessness summoned Tony Matterhorn’s “attitude gyal!” a donkey’s belly bare patch of wood welcomed Ms Shanice into its spotlight. her head rolled in C-sharp, the tempo increased, infused tallawah pepper riddims, the weave could not sit still, she was not made bashment but unseasoned rice, quiet in a room with other tolerable people, straight, un-ghetto, un-problematic, un, un, but she liked this feeling, oh she really liked this palancing of curls and nappy giggles. she felt herself unravelling from the canerows, the old follicles encouraged her take-off, Ms Shanice raised her knees and torso, before plummeting to a split, her weave leapt, strands strayed from their conditioning, the weave felt the smoke, the spat out coke, the air.

she was spotted flying alongside the jubilee toward the financial district, some claim she was rallying knuckle-braid twists to join her, others say she got snatched, but i know she is still out there flying across winter, laughing with no license, flaunting her flexibility, irie among Roman gods flashing their backsides.