Cornrows, bitchesThe Ramble project continues. This was one of the most popular essays I sent out.
I keep rewriting the intro to The Ramble and each attempt is worse than the one before it. Stops and starts about moving to a new neighborhood; gentrification; the local vibe. All of it read like a gruesome cross between faux romanticism and fake intellectualism. Here’s the deal: I’ve got cornrows.
Coming home last Sunday night I saw a guy in front of the apartment building next to my house getting his massive Ben Wallace ‘fro twisted into braids. I turned to Carrie, hair flopping in my eyes, and said. “I’m going to do that.” She laughed. When I floated the idea to Elon from the Brooklyn Comedy Company, he said “If you do
that I will punch you in the stomach. Please don’t make me punch you.” He reconsidered when I told him that I would be wearing the braids to work.Last night, on my stoop, in front of a crowd of varying degrees of drunkenness who were engaging in varying degrees of sexual harrassment and eating a lot of delicious smelling barbecue, Tisha twisted my hair into some tight goddamn braids. It took two hours, but there were a lot of delays - rubber bands to keep my silky hair
from unspooling; crying children; sexual harrassment. It was worth it to feel the breeze on my scalp.So for two days only, Charles will be rockin’ the braids at a few shows and during the workday.
Needless to say, I wasn’t joking.
For more cornrows pics, go here.
