So, I started wearing an afro recently. It all began with my company’s two-year anniversary party two weeks ago. The theme: Studio 54. Think Andy Warhol. Bianca and Mick. Diana Ross. Party favors.
Expectations for my disco outfit were astronomically high, so I made the only sartorial choice I could imagine ever making in this seventies situation: This blondie was going to rock a big black afro.
The party was on Monday, so on Sunday afternoon I went on a-fro mission to the East Village Wig District (St. Marks Place). After my very first stop at the wig shop on the corner of St. Marks and Second Avenue, mission accomplished. There was only one wig I tried on, and it was everything. The salesman asked for a two dollar tip so he could get a coffee. Absolutely, sir! I secured my ‘do with a headband and test-drove my sweet new accessory next door to Pinkberry, feeling much like Jimi Hendrix meets Cherry Garcia.
Now, obviously since I owned an afro, I wasn’t going to take it off and stuff it in my purse. (Not like it would fit in my Gucci fanny pack circa 2004 anyway.) There was only ONE proper way to transport the afro: on my head. The moment I walked outside with it, I felt different. Magic fairy dust fell from the sky. I was instantly cooler. The world looked slightly more fun. People looked at me like I was more fun. They glanced with curious eyes; eyes that squinted with smiling nods of approval. I was grooving (more than usual) as I walked down St. Marks Place. My shoulders and arms felt smaller and skinnier, making my collar bone seem to jut more. (Random, but a plus.) My cartoon-like shadow bounced as I cocked my head back and forth ever so slightly.
I could already tell… this afro was going to be more than just a one night stand. #AHA54 was about to be the party that never ended.
Excuse me, while I kiss the sky.
Pinkberry photo: Jessie McGrath