FATHERHOOD 101: These are my 10 weave commandments

Disclaimer: I have nothing against weaves, but they should look real. I’ve got no love for no extensions that look tacky.

My wife loves her some weave, and our daughter is following in mama’s style steps. I’ve stopped counting the number of times I’ve overheard the small girl wishing weaves. Our noes don’t stop her from begging and hoping.

I’m stuck with this hairstyle. Which means I either style up or shut up. But I’m Moses, and here are my 10 weave commandments…

Thou shall not leave any strands of weave on my hairbrush

This has become a common occurrence. If my wife’s rocking a weave, every time I brush my hair, I find the spines of my brush clogged with strands of weave. It’s a given. Which means that after brushing my hair, I must bring my head real close to the mirror, and then start the task of weave spotting. 

Thou shall not leave any strands of weave in thy lord’s supper

That’s lord with a small l. Meaning Joe Soap. This accident has not happened. (Nah. I’m not going to say, “Yet”). However, I know that accidents happen. But still. With the lord, one strand of weave in his plat du jour is like one thousand Made-In-China weaves. Good thing is, my lady knows this.   

Thou shall not plait a weave that makes thou look like a scarecrow

Here’s what I insist to my wife. Her weave should be fierce. No buts. Plus, I know that if she looks expensive, I get the props. If I want all my eyes to feast on only my wife, I’ll not, if I can afford it, spare any expenses. And so far? So. Gorgeous.   

Thou shall not covet thy neighbour’s or socialite’s weave

When other sisters floss pricey hairdos, without being told, point-blank, a man can feel like he’s dishing his woman a messy mop. (Hello, clueless sisters. Brothers read oodles between those wishful lines/tags/posts/forwards).

My unwritten deal with my wife is simple. If I have it, you’ll have it. If I don’t, we’ll have it…if we keep the faith.

Thou shall not make us wait while thou doest thy weave: for forever and a minute

This happens on weekday mornings. The clock tick-tocks. Departure time’s up. But my wife’s taking six solstices to spruce and spray her weave.

“A minute, guys,” she implores.

TICK. TOCK.

Meanwhile? Tut-tut. The lord is slow to angst. And the patient pupil, who’s getting late for school, is rolling her incredulous eyes.

Thou shall love thy weave with all thy clothes, and all thy accessories, and all thy shoes

It’s about loving what you bargained for. When, after she comes from the salon, my wife asks me how she looks, I speak the truth. Which, once or twice, may make her lose her weave. Brothers, beware. Truth may set you free…to hold a kesha on the sofa.

Thou shall keep thy weave for “x” days; but, on the “nth” day, let it rest

In other words, don’t sport a weave until it turns into an eyesore or becomes a “tourist attraction” for six-legged wingless creepy-crawlies.

Listen, luv. Sabbath applies to all spheres on God’s earth. Bruh, this is where truth may set your woman free: from probable hair loss. But? Do it diplomatically. Or else.

THOU SHALL NOT BEAR FALSE (WEAVE) WITNESS

I’m no extensions’ aficionado. I can’t, even for a million bucks, tell Indian from Eurasian hair weaves. But, baby, once the weave is braided on those tracks, you can’t fake it. Which means, (if you can afford), don’t go trashy; then try to pass it off as high-end.  

Cheap is expensive. Particularly on a discerning woman’s self-esteem and glam appeal.

Thou shall not leave “weave balls” on the dresser

Whenever my wife goes on weave-brushing sprees, there’s “weave loss”. I’ll swear her hair’s thinning. Until she reassures me that she’s all good.

If I want to know where my wife was combing her hair, I follow the weave trail. (Chirp. A little bird tells me this is a technique the female human species uses to mark her territory).

THOU SHALL NOT WORSHIP THY WEAVE

A too-good-to-be-human physical feature can mutate into a god. Premeditated or not, thus seeking all the honour and glory. Cue in a voluptuous derrière. Or, the mother of all weaves. Which makes every sister, and their mother-in-law, to rubberneck.

My woman is sensible, Thank God. She is not defined by what’s on her head, but what’s inside. Besides, beauty is vanity. 

HERE TO STAY:

 I’m stuck with this hairstyle. Which means I either style up or shut up.