To save money, I’ve been staying with an older woman who lives in Mt. Pleasant, South Carolina.  As I mentioned before, she’s 82 and delightful.  And we’ve spent hours talking.  Our topics range from her time in the Air Force, dating life (hers and mine), racism in the South, racism in the North, the children we both love (but never birthed), and memories of childhood.

Her honesty is refreshing.  And I’m happy that she likes me.  I was even shown a picture of her single nephew who’s about my age, with the slightest hints of our future together (though she doubts he’ll ever marry).

But there’s just this one thing that came up recently:

Ms. V: You really have so much hair.

Me: I know it. You should have seen me when I had dreadlocks down to my butt.

Ms. V: Oh no! I’m glad I didn’t meet you with those things. I don’t like them at all.

Me: (sad) But you don’t mind the afro, huh?

Ms. V: No, I mind. Just not as much.

Bugging the elders with my nappy head. Nobody’s perfect.