After my recent case of mistaken identity I decided to change my look. You know...Make myself appear even more expensive than I usually do. I know you’re all wondering how this is even possible considering the fact that I'm more or less perfect? Well, I decided to treat myself to a new head of hair.
28 inches of ass skimming, bouncy South American hair to be exact. Shaved from the heads pure virgin nuns from a convent in the middle of the Amazon. Believe me, the hair fine no be small. The fact that I bought it with the diesel money my mother left for the house, while she's off finding herself in Ibiza is irrelevant; and so is the fact that I am now living in perpetual darkness. Candle light was fine for my fore-fathers so it’s good enough for me.
However, before my re-invention I decided to send my new locks for a good ol’ wash. Pure virgin nuns or not, I ain't putting anyone else’s hair on my head till it’s been washed with a bottle of my mother’s industrial strength holy water.
So here I am sitting at work, ignoring the mountain of files on my desk, as I eagerly await my drivers return with my satin bag full of hair...Hooray!!!
Boli Lover, who has lost vast amounts of weight from a severe case of food poisoning, is trying to engage me in flirty banter. He’s talking but I ain’t listening. I’m eyeing his now flat tummy with envy. He’s managed to achieve in 2 weeks what months of dieting have failed to do for me. I consider snogging him in the hope of contracting some “Make you skinny but won’t kill you” virus but even the lure of a flat tummy isn’t enough to encourage physical contact with the man.
Ijebu Chick claims to have read an article about how drinking your own pee makes you skinny. We both laughed and said “God forbid” but I don’t trust her. We’re both rather competitive about the whole diet thing and I just bet she’s bottling her own pee and making cocktails out of it as we speak. She’ll probably turn up in December looking sexily emaciated. The back stabbing cow.
I eye the empty mug from my morning coffee and glance casually towards the ladies. Its practically water isn’t it? I mean how bad can it taste?
Only one way to find out blubber gut. Go on...Drink a lil’ peepee.
I’m gonna do it dammit!
I push back my chair, grab my mug and just as I’m about to head to the loo, I see Mr Fortune, my driver, heading towards me.
Phew! Saved from my own stupidity.
Cluck off Brain!
In order to maintain the madam/driver relationship, I resist the urge to hug him as he strolls in. Instead I dig deep and give him some money for his trouble. He eyes my N100.00 tip and dumps the bag of precious hair on my desk in disgust.
Infidel! I miss the good old days when you could have people drawn and quartered for less.
I open up the bag to make sure my hair smelt salon fresh and my heart suddenly developed an irregular rhythm.
Ahhhhh!!!! What is this?
I immediately pick up the phone and call my hairdresser.
So I fire off a text...
Floooooooooooooooooooooorencceee! You have started your madness again abi?
What is dis U have sent through Mr. Fortune?
I refuse to believe this limp, matted thing that looks like shaved hair from a gorilla’s armpit is d Brazilian weave I left for u 2 wash?
N’gba....it cannot be. For ur sake I hope u have given me d wrong bag by mistake. I’m sending my driver back 2 your salon now with MOPO. If I should receive a call from either of them that u have refused 2 handover 28 inches of soft, premium quality human hair, u will know today that it is possible to squeeze a human being of your hefty proportions into a “Ghana must go” bag and suspend them from a street light over third mainland bridge. With that your oversized ikebe it is unlikely that you will stay suspended for long; so after you come crashing down and ur run over by a BRT bus, you will know that Fashola is truly working. Don’t try me o!
I immediately dispatch Mr. Fortune back to the hairdressers with instructions to stop by my place and pick up a MOPO. He is instructed not to return until my hair has been retrieved either through peaceful or truncheon bashing means. Nonsense girl. Trying to kill me for my mama. No one kidnaps my hair and gets away with it.
My phone beeps.
I assume its Florence, who after receiving my text has seen the error of her ways and is responding to apologise for the mix up.
Hi, it’s been a while. Sure you’ve forgotten all about me. I ran into a mutual friend who gave me your number. I’m in town and would love to see you again. We really need to talk. Give me a shout. Hmmmm Dude.
“Blood of Jesus!” I scream as I chuck the phone across the room hitting Boli Lover square in the face.
“My face” he yells
“Oh God! My nose! This is blood abi? Look now its blood. You’ve broken my nose you crazy woman.”
I ignore his screaming. A small crowd is starting to gather round his desk as I make a break for the ladies.
Oh Lord! I can’t breathe. What the hells going on?
Ahhhh!!! My enemies. First my temptress curls are kidnapped by my shuku rocking hairdresser and now my jazz wielding friend with almost benefits turns up out of the blue...4 years later!
Who have I offended o?!
How the hell did he find me? Which evil so called mutual friend would do this to me?
And what the hell does he want now?
For those of you wondering who the hell Hmmm Dude is and why I’m so frazzled? He’s the pork dumpling seducer from my earlier post -"You did What?!" in 2007. I can't think straight right now. I need to go home and have a holy water bath with back to sender soap cause something sinister is afoot in Mena's tranquil world.