''Bald Head!''. . . I try not to let that bother me. See you gotta be leather to live in the ghetto. Tough skin is a requirement, first impressions builds character where I’m from. Descriptions are given like prescriptions and everybody got a pHD. So who you are is in return a reflection of what is seen, you know like, Dirty Damond, Bumpy Face Miles, Doo-Doo Breath Samantha, Bald Head Tasha. All interpretations but images presented. Whether you loved it or resented it they slowly became who you are. ''Bald Head!, Bald Head! I know you hear me, you hear me calling you, oh I forgot you want me to call you by your name, Bald Head Tasha.'' I refrain, tonight is Wednesday and I dressed in my religious uniform, white Reeboks and khaki knee lengths reach deep within to ask God to help me, help me to ignore his truths. See I want to stand and sing your praises but it’s hard to worship you when Pissy-Ass Sam keeps calling me bald head, in front of Pretty Boy Floyd, of whom I loved. See I am the love of his life but he doesn’t know that I’m his misses right cause Pissy-Ass keeps throwing salt in the game. I refrain, try to bypass his gestures. Fight my way through. Sequestered my journey but internalized his views, and now I stand with my broken mirror hoping to see the full me, whole, at the alter. Where I’ve come to lay down my burdens and ask God to heal my head. More importantly, do it overnight. Just like you parted the Red Sea lord put some hair on me. Faithfully exercising my follicles and while your answering prayers lord, touch my breast. Cause Big Tittie Tina got Floyd peaking and I know. I know she’s enticing but she’s not what he needs. I already got us married off with two children but he doesn’t even know me. ''GOD! Do you hear me? You must, you must, you must increase my bust, you must, you must, you must increase my bust. . .'' and if this exercise is what it takes then I’ll do it trust.
Every night. Arms fold chest, elbows touching the back, all in hopes of having a bodacious rack…but you see where that got me? 2 whole years, 2 whole years and I have boiled eggs on my chest and a drawer full of padded bras so I can look blessed. Thank you Victoria! for she, she has become my saint. Let’s get one thing straight, in grades A’s are cool but D’s will make a brotha do a double take. Peep the cycle, listen to the rational. One 13 year old girl just put her body up for sale. One Reebok wearing Christian turned jezebel. Scantily dressed, marketing tits and tale cause one boy couldn’t keep his mouth off my hair but that, really is another issue so we won’t even go there. Come now hither to the surface problems. One childhood unanswered prayer, one unfaithful God, one beautiful girl with a heart of a lion but scared. Scared to be. Quietly allowing peer pressure to dictate destiny. Does Stinky Boy really matter? Ya’ think? I was at the Chinese shop every other week cause of Piss Pot. Razor cutting weaves. Gradually adding length to make you believe that I…can…grow…hair. It mattered not that Pissy Ass Sam smell like a gas station toilet at 13. His constant jarring publicized my defaults and now I’m therapy to build self-esteem. From, ''bald head Tasha,'' to ''boujee ass bitch,'' to ''she can dress her ass off,'' to ''she think she the shit.'' And just maybe, just maybe I am. It took me 15 years to realize that hair does not change my face and God answered my prayers, I was just in the wrong place. Searching for time. Hoping to find myself before I became like crack fiend Don, Homecoming queen. Looking for love in all the wrong things. Cause in my neighborhood, there was no holds barred. You was getting janked on even if you was God, so you better get to learning who you really be cause love is life and life is hard when you can’t see, that the real you is better than being the fake somebody.