If I Woulda
Coulda
Shoulda

I wondered how much money men spent monthly on personal maintenance compared with women. Where was the justice? It was all an evil plot to keep women off track, to never catch up.

I headed for the closet to begin the ritual of deciding what to wear. I didn’t want anything too close around the neck. A new wardrobe was needed with this buzz cut. The straight-leg Donna Karan pants and box-cut Armani jackets didn’t do justice for me now. I needed to show that I was still one hundred percent woman, right down to my hairy little legs. A little cleavage and thigh action would clear up any doubts.

I picked up the phone. “Hey, Wendy, what’s up?” I spoke to my best bud about once a week. She was pulling double duty as a working mother and wife, so our talks were brief and straight to the point. “You want to do a little shopping with me on your lunch break today?”

“You’re going to stay in the district, right? I only have an hour for lunch and that bitch Sarah is back watching my every move. She’d chain me to my desk if it was legal.”

I laughed, knowing she had a serious concern. “No problem. I just want to pick up a pair of those new close-fitting pants that are out now. They’re something I swore I’d never sink to, but I need an overhaul in the closet and I gotta start somewhere. How are the kids?” The pause was indefinite, so I tried again. “What’s been going on in the Harris household?”

“Stop running through here and get your damn pants on,” I heard her scream with her hand over the phone, but it still penetrated my eardrum.

“I’m sorry girl, these kids are getting on my last nerve. I’ll meet you in front of O’Toole’s at twelve.” She hung up the phone without a good-bye.

I finished dressing and stuck a piece of dried-out breadstick in my mouth before heading out the door. The trash men were out and had blocked in my car momentarily. When I finally got a chance to pull out, I gave them my usual wave. They stared at me for a few moments before responding hesitantly. I could see their mouths moving in unison. The one with muddy brown skin flashed a half smile before turning to talk to the shorter, lighter-skinned one hanging on the back of the truck with his body swallowed by large black overalls. They both waved, while talking to each other out the sides of their mouths.

“Go to hell,” I muttered to myself through clenched teeth. I hoped they could read lips. As many times as I’d given them respect and acknowledgment for no other reason than being black men, they had the nerve to pass judgment on my shaved head. If we were having a judging contest, they would’ve lost points long ago for missing teeth and keeping an outdated Jheri curl alive past extinction.

I was angry and that’s not a good way to be on Route 66. The flood of people trying to get into DC on this two-lane highway was a joke. I turned up the radio and listened to the morning show with Olivia Fox and Russ Par. I flipped it off after hearing Mary J. moaning about someone being her everything. She’ll suffer the consequences of making a man her “everything.” I almost hit a silver blue Explorer as I attempted to exit. The horn startled me out of my trance.

I was thinking about the dream I had the night before. The dream started out with the familiar white cream, cool at first, being slathered all over my body, and I mean all over, and then turning hot, burning small holes in my skin. The figure standing over me as I lay on the white plastic-covered table asked, “Is it burning yet?” When I tried to speak, the sound wouldn’t come out. I couldn’t tell whoever it was that I was ready. That my body was searing with the heat of the chemical.

I shuddered with the thought. I didn’t expect to have that dream ever again. Not since I’d taken action with the clippers. I ran my fingers across the nape of my neck. It reminded me of the feathers on a baby bird. I took my free hand and massaged my neck a little more. I missed Clint for those purposes. He was the best when it came to gentle massages, from my feet to my back and shoulders, even the whole body at times. Now I was working on myself. It wasn’t the same.

By lunchtime I was ready to pack it in and go home, but I remembered my shopping date with Wendy. I grabbed my purse and tried to keep a low profile as I made my way out of the building. The sun was bright, making me reach for my sunglasses. Walking to O’Toole’s was quicker than driving during the lunchtime rush. I was greeted by the host, who started to lead me toward the busiest area of the restaurant. I reached out and tugged his sleeve to point to the outdoor patio tables.

“I’m sorry, we don’t have anyone on duty in that area yet.” He checked his watch. “Not for another half hour.”

“That’s fine. I don’t mind waiting.” I wanted to sit as far away from people as possible. No matter how hard I tried to feel confident, I truly believed everyone was staring at me.

He seated me on the patio, handing me a menu. “I’ll go ahead and take your order.”

Thank you for being a mind reader, I thought, as he brought back the chicken and iced tea I’d ordered. I looked up and noticed Wendy coming toward me. She walked right past me. She stopped and then paced a little looking up and down Ninth Street. She looked at her watch, then straight ahead.

“Wendy,” I called out. She turned around and looked right through me, sitting on the patio of O’Toole’s restaurant. I waved first, then removed my Ray Bans. Her dark square sunglasses hid her honey-brown eyes, but I knew they were bugged out of her head. Her mouth fell open and she inhaled some air, but still no voice.

“It’s me, girl.” I smiled. “Well, don’t tell me what you think. That’s all right.”

She did an about-face and walked around to the restaurant’s main entrance pretending to be too ladylike to step over the white chain-link fence that encircled the outdoor seating area. Her thick scent of syrupy sweet perfume mixed with baby powder permeated the air around me.

“I can’t believe you did it. You got balls. You got some serious balls.” She stood over me, examining the contours and dips of my oval-shaped head.

“Well thanks, I think.” I pushed the half-full platter of fried wings and celery to her. “I saved you some.”

She sat down slowly, but quickly snapped out of it when a waft of the chicken caught her attention. She grabbed one of the tiny wings and plunged it into the accompanying blue cheese dressing.

“It looks good on you, but I still can’t believe you did it.” She removed every sliver of meat, giving it a last suck before throwing the bone down and grabbing another.

“I can’t believe I did it either.” I put my sunglasses back on just in case I momentarily welled up.

“What’d Clint say?”

“His opinion is the last I care about. I sent him packing over two weeks ago. Don’t you listen to anything I tell you?”

“You did what?” She stopped licking her fingers. “You threw back a prime catch like Dr. Feelgood? Do you know how many sharks are out there, swimming the waters for a fine-ass man like that, and you go and throw him back in?”

“It wasn’t working out.” I leaned across the table so no one could overhear my shame. “I’ve been primping and polishing for him for over four years.” I held up four fingers with my unpainted nails. “Not even a ring, Wendy. I’m sick of waiting.”

“I don’t care if you got to wait four more. You just don’t go giving up no doctor, honey!” She raised her hand as if she was speaking the gospel. “I guess you weren’t paying attention when the world announced ‘the man shortage.’ The drought is only going to get worse.”

“It’s too late now. My pride is at stake.” I replaced the Burnt Clover lipstick that had been wiped off with the grease of the spicy chicken. Our area was filling with the lunch crowd. I could feel eyes boring into my scalp. I looked around to see who was staring, but there was not one soul looking our way. “Are you ready? We’ve got shopping to do, remember?”

She threw down the last bone and wiped her hands. “Tell me something, did you guys break up before or after you cut your hair?”

“Before. Why? What difference does that make?”

“Girl, you know how men feel about hair. We’ve had this discussion too many times for you not to know.”

“Yes, I do know. Trust me, hair or no hair, he wasn’t willing to commit. I held on as long as I could, Wendy. I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t keep pretending I was happy just to be in his company. I needed more. So now I’m just happy with myself.”

“Are you really?”

“Ecstatic,” I lied. “I mean, really, you know how long I’ve wanted to stop the madness. I was only holding on because I knew how much he’d disapprove. I told you about those reports I read, how those chemicals we use are absorbed into our skin. I swear I think I’m going insane from having used that stuff for so long. I read another study on black girls and white girls, how forty percent of the black ones go into puberty way too early and start their periods at the age of ten and above. And only ten percent of the little white girls started their periods that early. And you know the earlier you start your period, the higher your chances are for ovarian cancer, and a number of other problems.”

“How is getting your hair straightened going to make your period come early?” Wendy asked, almost afraid of the answer. I knew she was tired of my continuous preaching of one poison or another in our environment. My addiction to information always led me on research journeys. Last week it was the bleaching process of coffee filters, the week before that it was the cell phone rays penetrating our brain.

“It’s not the relaxer, it’s the stuff we use to keep the hair bouncing and behaving afterwards, like hair grease, fatty acids, animal protein. That’s what those grease-laden hair products are made from, and I’m convinced that mess is absorbed into our system. We have been putting those products on our scalps since the turn of the century. Do you see little white children padded down with grease in their hair? Once it’s absorbed into our bloodstream, our bodies can’t tell the difference between oh-so-lovely-hair oil, and the saturated fat in a bowl of potato chips; it just knows there’s fat. And what causes a young girl to begin menstruation, I’ll tell you, it’s fat. When her body reaches a certain percentage of body fat, the carnage begins. Then there’s high blood pressure, hypertension—”

“Venus, you’re right.”

“I know I am. This is serious.”

“Not about that. I mean about the fact that you are truly going insane.” Wendy stood up, placing her sunglasses back over her light-tinted eyes. Her own black tresses were in long relaxed layers over her shoulders. I followed closely behind Wendy’s long shapely frame and noticed the approving glances that a group of businessmen were throwing her way. I couldn’t help but wish I was being admired as well.

“Oh yeah, that’ll work.” Wendy looked me over as I twisted and adjusted in the mirror. “Now you need a pair of four-inch-high hooker pumps to go with them.”

I laughed out loud for the first time since my hair had been cut. “They would really think I flipped my lid if I walked into the office with these tight-ass pants. Did I tell you how everybody was tripping? Their mouths just about hit the floor when they saw me.”

“Well, Venus, it was a shock. I mean, when you do something drastic like that, it’s natural for people to assume you’re a different person, or at the very least in a different state of mind.” Wendy moved to the left side of the three-way mirror and started fingering her hair while she talked. “Damn, I’d just be nothing without my hair, and I admit it freely. I don’t know how many times I’ve panicked when too much came out in the comb. Sidney would have a conniption fit if I came home without this hair. He sits in front of the TV when Soul Train comes on watching all those weaves flinging and booties twisting like it’s the Super Bowl. And then there’s the BET channel, Black Educational Training for all the future hoochies of America. Don’t mess with him when he’s getting his groove on with Rachel.”

Wendy and Sidney had been childhood sweethearts and married for a full decade, and I couldn’t remember her ever having anything nice to say about him, yet they were joined at the hip.

She hadn’t noticed that I was already back in the dressing room doing my best not to hear her. I couldn’t take it anymore. When I came out, she was still looking in the mirror finger-combing her hair.

“Where are the pants?” She looked me over from side to side to see which arm was holding them.

“I’m not going to get them. They’re not my style.”

“You’re kidding. They looked good on you. I’m serious, Venus.”

I had already started moving toward the escalator.

“Venus. Wait.”

The store was filled with lunchtime shoppers, mostly women, strike that, only women, seeking out clothing that would make their mates happy, no doubt. I could hear Wendy behind me grumbling about the fact that she could’ve used her precious time more wisely than watching me play dress-up in Nordstrom’s department store. I let her ramble on while I was thinking if I woulda coulda, shoulda. My father used to sing it to my brother and me every time we started whining about something we hadn’t achieved or if the tide didn’t flow in our direction. I could almost hear my father louder than the classic pianist centered in the middle of the store. “Stop making excuses for yourself. If I woulda, coulda, shoulda, the final words of a poor man.” If I would’ve left Clint alone, not pressured him, maybe he would’ve come around. If I could’ve been more patient. But four years, four long years. He should’ve bought the ring.

“Are you listening to me, Venus?” I felt Wendy’s long fingers gripped on my shoulder. “You’re scaring me. You’ve been acting pretty strange lately. We’ve got to talk.” She looked down to adjust her gold watch. “I don’t have time right now, but call me tonight when you get home. I mean it, Venus. Call me.” Wendy disappeared past the cosmetics and accessories.