If you have been following my last two articles, I introduced you to my locs and gave you a bit of a backstory, to the story behind my hair.. In case you missed them follow the links below:
•Fifty strands of dread
•Hairxpress Yourself
You would probably be now acquainted with how, my hair, isnt an expression of any profound beliefs or views, it stemmed from a curiosity and the more people pushed for me to get my haircut, well, the more I held on to my curiosity and now my hair has become an extension of my identity…
I have hung out with people who never learnt my name and refer to me simply as dread or rasta… People who are quick to recognise me by my hair and nothing else. I walk in the world imagining that I am hiding in plain sight because were I to one day wake up and cut my hair and shave my beard I wouldn’t need to change my name to disappear….
I don’t understand the fascination people have with people with locs, I really don’t…. Having locs seems to immediately transform you into a sort of celebrity, maybe its because people remember you and notice you, someone who dropped off at the same bus stop as you, someone who was behind you in the supermarket, someone who sat next to you in a combi…
To you they are just nameless faces going about their lives but to them, you are this enigma wrapped in dreadlocs and assumptions… You look at each other and make eye contact and when you acknowledge them with an almost imperceptible nod that sends your locs shaking they break into a toothy smile some might even extend their hand to fist bump you and give you greetings and felicitations in the name of Emperor Haile Selasie..…
Sometimes I feel like a fraud that I dont live upto what all these people assume of me, but I keep walking and recipropracate gestures extended to me as people chant Big Up Elder… Well I guess I am an elder now…
Do rasta people look alike? People swear to have seen me somewhere before, they will insist they know me from some place and that I did all sorts of things for which they are eternally grateful as they trying to pay me back, insist on offering me a drink or a smoke… Even if I almost convince them that it’s a case of mistaken identity, they will shrug it away and tell me that “yamarasta haaipotse” which literally translates to a rasta never misses regarding how fortuitous situations always smile on a rasta…
On the flip side of the coin there are the people who will shift to the other side of the road so your parts don’t cross, as if the hair is something contagious or extremely dangerous…
Parents who tell me not to hang out with their kids because I am a bad influence, that I smoke weed and probably do drugs and lead impressionable youths down a decadent path… Police eye me suspiciously and I feel like I am profiled, every single time I pass by a police officer, their gaze seems to double back onto me, making sure I am not being suspicious….
Its weird that the taxi conductor who calls me out for not paying would be the one whom I had given his fare while we were still outside because he had recognised that I would be going the route he was going without me even asking if it was the correct one.. and he would remember my bus stop without me telling him which would be surprising as I really don’t remember travelling in their taxi before…
As I drop off my stop the driver will wave at me and shout “Jah havana mhosva” which translates to a rastaman can do no wrong…
But that’s the thing about navigating the world dread, the world notices you…
~B
Becoming The Muse 
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