Mi Pelo IV

As I was walking down one of the main streets to my hotel in Guadalajara, Mexico, a guy rode by on a bike and made a sharp u-turn on the sidewalk. He stopped in front of me and asked if I was a Rasta. I told him no. It didn't take me long to figure out he was fascinated with my hair because he kept staring at it.

He pretended to be interested in where I was from, my name, etc. Eventually, he got to the point. He wanted to know about my hair. I told him they were locs. He asked to touch them. I pretended not to understand his Spanish request. Fed up, I guess, he reached out and grabbed a front loc, molested it ever so lightly, softly said, "Bonita" and rode off.
Loose or loc'd, my African hair continues to fascinate.

Mi Pelo III
Mi Pelo II
Mi Pelo