by Cairo
“See, Miss FeFe,” I say, droppin’ my phone back into my bag as Pasha hurriedly races through the door. She’s lookin’ fierce as ever. She’s let her hair grow out and has it pulled back in a sleek ponytail with her signature bang sweepin’ over her left eye. Ears and wrist blingin’ with ice, girlfriend looks like she’s dipped and paid out the ass. And she should be, considerin’ the kinda paper Jasper’s dirty-ass is pullin’ in. “There ya nosey ass go tryna be all up on mine.”
She laughs.
“Girl,” Pasha says, shiftin’ her oversized Louie from one hand to the other; practically outta breath. “I’m so sorry for having you wait like this. Jaylen had me up all night.”
I wave her on. “No worries, Miss Pasha, girl. Miss FeFe has been keepin’ me very entertained.”
She smiles, shakin’ her head. “Oh, I bet she has. And bringing you up-to-date with all the street news while she’s at it, I’m sure.”
We laugh.
“Oh, whatever,” Felecia says, wavin’ her on. “I like to stay in-formed and keep my finger on the pulse of what’s goin’ on; that’s all. Don’t hate.”
Pasha looks over at me, then back at Felecia, shakin’ her head. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I love you dearly, cuz. But let’s face it. You can’t keep your nose out of other people’s business. You’ve always been like that. Any calls for me?”
She sucks her teeth. “Oh, whatever. Call it what you want. I’m inquisitive; that’s all.”
Pasha laughs. “Yeah, code for nosey.”
Miss FeFe sucks her teeth. “Anyway, your three o’clock cancelled, but she’s in for tomorrow. And Mona called. She said she couldn’t reach you on your cell. Call her when you get a moment.”
She hands Miss Pasha a stack of mail. Pasha tells me to follow her back to her station.
“Oh, and Cassandra,” Felecia calls out to me. “I’ll be waitin’ when you get done to answer the question, inquirin’ minds still wanna know.”
I look back at her. “I suck dingaling, boo. I get my pussy ate. And, with the lights out, a wet tongue is a wet tongue, no matter who’s eatin’ it. Get horny enough and you’ll know what I mean.”
She cracks up laughin’ as several customers glance at me. “Girl, I can’t with you; not today.”
Bitch, you sure can’t. Not today; not ever!
Three
“Girl, what’s been goin’ on with you?” Pasha asks as she snaps the cape around my neck. “I haven’t seen you since the wedding.”
“Miss Pasha, ain’t shit new, boo. I’m doin’ me. Ridin’ down on a nice hard dick every chance I get and collectin’ them child support checks. And, of course, I’m always in search of new sponsors.”
Pasha laughs. “Girl, you and your sponsors. But I ain’t mad at you.”
“Girlfiend, puhleeze. These trick-ass hoes better get with the program. Ain’t no sense in fuckin’ for free when you can get paid for it. Although if I was a niggah, I wouldn’t pay for shit. I’d have hoes payin’ me for a ride on my dick. And hopefully I’d be one of those niggahs blessed with a big, ole long, black, veiny dingdong.”
She laughs.
“I’m serious, Pasha, girl. Shit, think I ain’t.”
“Girl, I already know.”
“Mmhmm. If I’m gonna wet a dick, then I need to get paid to wet it. Shit. I have kids to feed.”
As I’m lookin’ in the mirror, I see some rusty, dusty bitch sittin’ in the chair across from me, makin’ a face, but I put her on ignore real quick since I’m not sure if she’s makin’ that ugly face because of what I said or if her stylist’s pussy stinks since she has it practically all pressed up on the bitch’s neck as she braids her hair. Now, you know, I like to try and keep it classy before I turn on the ghetto switch and hooker-bop a bitch in the mouth, which is why I decide to dismiss it.
But in my mind, I’m thinkin’, “Strike one, bitch!”
Pasha cracks up laughin’. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that, girl. Do you.”
“Always, Miss Pasha Girl. If I don’t do me, who else will? That’s what’s wrong with a lotta these hoes out here today, they don’t know how to do them. They too busy hatin’ on the next bitch and stressin’ over the dumb shit. And no-count niggahs. My motto is: hump ’em ’n dump ’em. A niggah can’t act right, move onto the next. How you think I ended up with eight baby daddies? Besides the fact I love the dingdong.”
Rusty Crusty frowns again. Strike two, bitch!
Pasha spins me around in the chair again. Now I’m facin’ the bitch across from me. She shifts her eyes. I stare her down. “Speaking of your kids, how are they?”
I grunt. “Bad as ever. Hell, the only ones who don’t give me any problems are DaQuan and Marquelle. They are both doin’ great. DaQuan’s still at Howard. And my baby Marquelle is in his last year of high school.” She wants to know if Marquelle’s still playin’ basketball. “Girl, what else is that six-foot-five niggah gonna do, but play ball? I will fuck him up real good if he even thinks about messin’ up gettin’ me floor seats at all the NBA games. Honeeeey, LeBron James’ momma aint’ gonna have shit on me, okay. I’ma be runnin’ all through them games, doin’ it up, boo.”
She laughs as she starts cuttin’ out my sew-in. “Girl, you’re a mess. I heard that. And is he goin’ away to college in the fall?”
“He better be if he knows what’s good for him. Or get fucked up, okay. I might be many things, but a mother of some bum-ass niggahs ain’t one of ’em.”
“I know that’s right,” one of Pasha’s newest stylists says, smoothin’ a relaxer through her client’s hair. I ask her who she is. She says her name is Rhodeshia, then asks, “How many sons you have?”
“Nine,” I say, eyein’ her. “I have nine boys, and one girl.”
She gasps. “Ohmygod, you have ten kids?”
“Yes, boo.” I tell her their ages.
“Girl, get. Out. And your body still looks like that? Shoot, I had one baby and it practically tore my body up. I had to have some lipo work done to suck out all the extra fat that wouldn’t go away on its own.”
“Ooooh, poor thing,” I say. “Bless your lil’ chunky heart. Body is one thing I’ve always had.”
“Yeah, that’s true,” Miss FeFe’s nosey-ass says as she comes through with a broom sweepin’ hair up around some of the stations. The only reason the bitch pushes a broom back here is so she can hear what the fuck everyone’s sayin’ ’cause there ain’t shit happenin’ up front. “This traffic-stopper makes me sick wth all that body and booty.”
I catch Rusty Crusty curlin’ her lips. But I don’t strike her ass out since I’m really thinkin’ her stylist must have a rotted cock stuck up in her cooch. So I keep pressin’. “Oh, Miss FeFe, hush. All these niggahs see is this big, juicy ass. They could give a damn about the rest of my body.”
“Girl, please,” Pasha says, wavin’ me on as she removes the last track of weave. “Those long, sexy legs and small waist . . . mmmph. Folks are still talking about you and that dress you wore at my wedding.” She laughs. “I think you got more attention than I did that night. And it was my wedding.”
“Sorry, Miss Pasha Girl, I didn’t mean to snatch your shine. But hon, you know how I do it. If I’m comin’, then I’m comin’ to steal the show, damnit. I don’t play no games, okay?”
She laughs. “I heard that. And girrrl, before I forget, I’m lovin’ the bag. One word: fierce!”
I toot my lips up. “Uh-huh; like me—fierce, sugah-boo. You know how I do. Had one of my young boos sponsor this bag.”
Pasha chuckles. “I know that’s right. Booty, you’re a mess. Oops, I didn’t mean to call you that. You know I always forget your real name, girl.”
“Miss Pasha, girl, you know you cool with me, boo. So it’s all good. You know the niggahs love them some Big Booty, baby.”
She chuckles. “Yes, I know they do. Anyway, back to you and them young boys. You stay messing with them. That sounds like too much drama.”
“Chile, yo
u know there ain’t no shame in my game. Honey, I love ’em young. Ain’t nothin’ like gettin’ you a dose of some young tender cock every now and again. Shit, why shouldn’t I? I look damn good for my age and they stay thinkin’ I’m still in my twenties, so hell yes, I’ma wear them dingalings out. And let me tell you, sugah-boo. Them niggahs can bust off a round back to back to back and still have enough energy to go out and make that money after an all-night fuckfest. Yes, boo, I love that young dingdong. And trust me. After I put it on ’em, they hustle up all their paper to get back up in these hips. And, no . . . they don’t come with any more drama than some of these no-count older niggahs. You simply have to know how to handle ’em. And know when to dismiss ’em.”
She laughs, shakin’ her head. “I heard that. And I know you don’t mind runnin’ their pockets, either; that’s for sure.”
“Nope, never have; never will. But, shit. I don’t discriminate. I like ‘em young and old. Well, not too old. The last time I had me some senior citizen dick I was fifteen tryna get my rent money up. And they didn’t have Viagra back then. So you know his old ass was servin’ me nothin’ but prune-dick; shriveled down to the damn gristle.”
Everyone in the shop laughs.
“Anyway, as long as a niggah’s dick can get hard and stay hard, then we good. Shit, I gotta keep that big-ass gas guzzler I have outside filled up. And my shoe and handbag collection up . . . ”
JT’s big-dicked self pops into my head. No good-niggah-bitch! Crazy niggahs like him, you gotta fuck in small doses. Give him tiny rations of pussy and ass and throat to keep him from gettin’ all nutty on you. Married or not, I think the niggah has a damn screw loose. No, scratch that shit. I know he does, which is why I keep a can of mace and a gun cocked and ready in case his ass ever tries to bring it to me.
“And I already got my eye on my next victim. A young, tasty niggah who I heard is reppin’ for the Mandingaling tribe.”
Pasha and the Rhodeshia chick laugh.
“Mandingaling? Girl, I can’t,” Pasha says, shakin’ her head. “I’ve done heard it all.”
“Miss Pasha Girl, what can I say? I likes ’em tree trunk big.”
Rhodeshia chimes in. “Oooh, yes. A woman after my own heart. That’s exactly how I like ’em, too.”
I wave her on. “Oooh, what you say? Yes, honey-boo. Anything under eight inches is a bore.”
“But what if he’s extra thick, but short on length?” the chick sittin’ on the left of me asks as her stylist—I think her name’s Keisha or Kendra or some shit like that—finishes up her micro-braids.
I grunt, pursin’ my lips. “Sweetness, all that is for me is a butt plug. Give me length and width. I wanna be stretched, stroked, and stabbed. I need to be gutted, boo.”
She and the two other stylists laugh.
Rusty Crusty is ear-hustlin’ real hard. I catch her eyein’ me on the low.
Yeah, bitch. I see you hatin’ on me.
When Pasha finally finishes removin’ the rest of my weave, she leans my head back in the sink, then washes and conditions my hair. “Girl, I can’t get over how long your hair is. I don’t know why you mess with all these weaves when you have a head full of beautiful hair.”
“Miss Pasha, girl. Give me body, boo. I like it long and full. Long hair and long nails to go along with long dingdong. Besides, I like lettin’ these hatin’ hoes think I’m baldheaded. And honey, the only thing bald on me is my pussy.”
Everyone laughs.
When Miss Pasha’s done she blots my hair dry with a white, fluffy towel, sittin’ me up in the chair. She wants to know what I want done. I tell her I want another sew-in; that I want her to turn me into a chocolate Pocahantas with the bangs and all.
“Do me right, boo. Don’t do me like Miss Beyoncé, though. And I love me some Miss Bee. But that shit she wears always looks tore up. Mmmph. All that goddamn money and you can’t wear you a decent damn weave. Shit, even my girl Dickalina would lay her out right.”
Pasha laughs, then asks how Lina’s doin’. “Her ass’s still retarded as ever. But whatchu gonna do? Still gotta love her. Anyway, back to my damn weave. I don’t want no games, Miss Pasha. I’m goin’ down to the CrackHouse tonight for a few drinks and hopefully some cock, so I need you to do me right, sugah-boo.”
She keeps laughin’. Tells me she has the perfect look for me. Then has Miss FeFe go to the back of the shop to the supply room and bring her out a bundle of 18-inch Indian Natural Wave.
“Girl, you will love this hair. It’s L-10 hair and it will give you just the look you want. She starts ramblin’ about how it’s virgin hair that can be colored and flat-ironed with ease. She blow-dries my hair out, then starts partin’ my hair for cornrows.
“Oooh, yes . . . do it, sugah boo. Give it to me good. That’s what I’m talkin’ about. So, Miss Pasha Girl, I’ve been meanin’ to ask you. You ever have you some young dingaling?”
She drops her comb, laughin’ and chokin’. “Chile, I’m a married woman. I’ll leave all that for you.”
“Mmmhmm,” I laugh, eyein’ her. “But you ain’t always been married.”
“True. Let’s simply say I’ve had my share of experiences.”
I laugh. “Uh-huh, I’m sure you have. Welcome to the club, boo. We all have a story to tell.”
I catch her as she shifts her eyes. “Yes, we do.”
Again, Rusty Crusty is lookin’ at me. She shifts her eyes.
Here’s my thing, if you gonna fuckin’ stare, then speak, goddammit. Don’t keep eyeballin’ me like you wanna get knocked in your fuckin’ sockets. “Boo, do I know you?” I finally ask, tiltin’ my head. I lean up in my seat in case I gotta leap up on her ass.
She acts like she doesn’t know I’m talkin’ to her. So I ask her again.
“Excuse me?” she finally says.
“No, bitch, excuse you,” I hear myself startin’ off, but I catch myself. I take a deep breath. “Chick, I asked you if I knew you. Everytime I say somethin’, you sittin’ over there rollin’ your goddamn eyes up in your head and makin’ all kinda ugly-ass Cookie Monster faces—that you don’t even need to be makin’ with ya ugly ass self—and I wanna know are you makin’ them at me or does your stylist’s pussy stink?”
The Rhodeshia chick frowns. “Girl, wrong answer. I keeps the kitty fresh.”
“Then I guess this bitch is doin’ me then, huh?”
“Bitch?” Rusty Crusty screeches. “You don’t know me—”
“And, bitch, you don’t know me to be eyeballin’ me like you wanna put some work in. So either you want some of this fat pussy or wanna get your ass beat, which is it? ’Cause I know I didn’t fuck your man. Or did I? And if I did, remind me who he is so I can go back and ride his face tonight, then send him back home to you with my pussy juice stained on his tongue.”
“Oh, no. Not today, girl,” Pasha warns, watchin’ me through the mirror. “Please, not today.”
I glance up at her. “Not to worry, Miss Pasha. I’m gonna stay classy with it. You know how I do.”
“Yeah, I do,” she says, narrowin’her eyes and spinnin’ me around in the chair, facin’ her. “And I’m not having you tear my shop up,” she hisses. “So don’t.”
I laugh. “Miss Pasha, I wouldn’t do you like that, boo. But you right. I’ma let it go. But tell that ugly bitch to stop starin’ at me, like she wanna eat my ass out or somethin’. She’s makin’ my asshole ache.”
“Trick, the only ugly bitch in here is you.”
I laugh, decidin’ to fuck with her ass. “Bitch, you on crack. You see all this fabulousness over here, so don’t even front. Call me a ho, boo. Call me a slut. Don’t ever call me ugly, bitch. ’Cause you and I know it’s all lies. I know you like what you see, hatin’-ass trick. So, what you wanna do, fuck or fight? I bet you gotta big-ass dick, too. What you want, some of this pussy, boo? Oh, and I love it in the ass, too.” I pull up the cape and spread my legs. “I don’t have on any drawers, either.”
I make
the bitch uncomfortable. Everyone in the shop gasps.
“Booty! I mean, Cassandra!” Pasha screeches through clenched teeth. “I will burn the shit out of you with this hot iron if you don’t stop. I told you I don’t want no shit up in here today, or any other day.”
I am crackin’ up. “Oh, Miss Pasha, relax, boo. I’m only fuckin’ with her ass. She’s lucky I’m in a good mood, though. Othewise you know it woulda turned messy up in here.” I crane my neck, lookin’ over at Rusty Crusty, flappin’ my tongue at her. I make the ho nervous. But she keeps her goddamn eyes off of me for the rest of the time I’m sittin’ here. Bitch, tryna eyeball me. Puhleeze.
Ten minutes later, Pasha has finished installin’ my lustrious weave. And as always, it’s flawless! It’s silky and flowin’ down to my asscrack. And I feel like a sexy-ass chocolate Barbie. Miss Pasha knows she can do the hell outta some hair.
I pay my bill, walk back over to Pasha’s station and slide her a hundred-dollar tip, then sling my new hair over my shoulder and strut out the door. With all eyes on me!
Four
“Spread your legs, baby,” JT says as he slaps me on the ass. I arch my back, jiggle and bounce it for him. He’s a dark chocolate, get-money street niggah who I’ve been creeping with for the last ten months. The niggah loves the streets. Even after doing two bids in prison, he still can’t stay away from the fast life, the fast cash, and all the fast ass that comes along with it—includin’ mine, which is exactly why I’m bent over slap-jackin’ my ass for him.