Nothing Beats a Black Man in Dreadlocks
Pushing my cart through the automatic doors of HyVee, I took an automatic ethnicity census. There were no other black people in sight. I sighed, in reluctant acceptance of the status quo, but when I strolled over to the deli section for grilled turkey, my eyeballs yoyo’d out of my skull. The young man behind the counter was African American, his hair in short tidy locs.
My mind went crazy. Do you see that? HyVee’s got a black kid with dreadlocks working the deli counter? Yeah, I see. Calm down. Act normal. I hoped I hadn’t said any of that out loud.
Helping another customer, he was chatty and attentive, which gave me time to give thanks for the miracle of his existence. He was alive and exuberant, doing what any normal person his age would be doing. He looked up and, with brief eye contact, noted I was there. Good service, too.
My turn. He came over. A ready smile. I was determined to be professional, to treat this young man with the dignity he deserved. Dawn, do not reach over and pinch his cheek. “Half pound of mesquite smoked turkey, please.”
The turkey was right up next to the customer side of the case. As he reached way in to grab a handful, he beamed over the glass at me. The same grin I might flash if I were serving deli meat to Barack Obama.
“Do you twist your own hair?” he asked.
My fake nonchalance didn’t stand a chance. The question’s familiarity disarmed me. A kindred lockster, he knew he could go right there. Leap right over the superficial I like your hair, and get down to the business of process. At the same time, it was an acknowledgement of my position in the tribe. I was a dreadlock elder and he, possibly a new recruit.
“Yeah,” I answered to his twist inquiry. “Do you?”
He placed the clump of turkey on the scale. “No, my girlfriend does it for me.”
“I wish she’d do mine.”
I admired other people’s dreadlock sculptures, but I’d never gotten into fancying up my own. Locs were supposed to solve the problem of taking care of my hair. They were supposed to be easy and cool. They were cool, but definitely not easy.
He plopped the turkey into a plastic bag, smoothed the label on. “She will. I’ll ask her.”
I laughed. “Okay.” Then offered a mock warning. “I’ll be back to check with you.”
The turkey was on special, but the best deal was me standing in all-white HyVee at age seventy, bonding with a twenty-something black man over our hair. He handed me the bag. “I’m here every day. Nine to three.”
Damn, he was quick. HyVee should promote this one.
And he was serious about his girlfriend. I bet she would twist my hair. Locksters are a generous clan.
He turned to the next in line. I pushed my cart toward the produce. Every day, nine to three … and this half pound of turkey would run out in a week. HyVee had just become my favorite store.
