Every time I go to another country, I have to take a pic of me and my fro. Canada is no exception. I woke up on Toronto Day 2 and got fro’d out. Fro days make me smile on the inside and the outside. Mine is getting big now which makes me even happier.
Most times, I’ll get weird stares even in the states. It totally baffles Asians. Few understand or even want to understand the philosophy of the fro, but I choose to wear mine for several reasons with one being that people should be exposed to the beauty and wonderment of natural black hair.
I wasn’t sure how Canada was going to take it. Mexico = cat calls by the men. Belize = “Eh! My sister and her mane” with much love by the Rastas. Argentina = hushed whispers in corners and kids pointing. Canada = nothing.
Nobody cared. I was amazed at how many people didn’t care. No stares, no fingers pointed, no nothing. Then I figured out why. In Toronto, everybody’s weird. People have tuned out the idiosyncrasies of people’s self-expressions and move along with their lives with little contact with each other. With the guy sitting across the table from me at lunch whose entire body from what I could see was tattooed—including his head and ears, to the girl with the random hair cut, to the stripper with five ¼-inch thick lines that made up her pants that we saw later that night, my fro didn’t matter. And I liked that.
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