“Uh ... hello?” I said, pulling my head out of his reach and breaking the moment.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he apologized and dropped his hand into his lap. “It’s just that your hair is so beautiful.”
“Thank you.” Okay, so the hair-stroking moment was a little weird for a public place, but what woman doesn’t like to hear compliments about her hair? And then Tony ruined it by opening his mouth and saying the stupidest possible thing.
“Is it real?”
I snapped my neck around and glared at him, all attitude now. “Excuse me?”
“Is it real?” His tone was innocent, but I didn’t care. First, the comment about me being late, and now this. Until now, Tony’s whiteness hadn’t really been an issue for me, but hair is a sensitive subject for a black woman, and if he didn’t know that, then maybe there was such a thing as being “too white.”
“I heard you the first time,” I said, my voice laced with contempt. “I just can’t believe you asked me that. I mean, why wouldn’t it be real?”
“I don’t know,” he answered. “But I do know that sometimes women get weaves, extensions, or whatever.”
“Women, or black women?” I was feeling defensive, but incredibly, he still looked bewildered, like he truly didn’t understand how his question had offended me.
“All women,” he answered. “It seems like half the women in Hollywood are doing it now, aren’t they? I mean, how else did Britney Spears get her hair back so fast after she shaved her head? But to answer your question, it is popular among black women, isn’t it?”
“Humph!” was all I said.
He was right, of course, but he still needed to know that just like you don’t ask a woman how old she is, you don’t ask if her hair is real. But since the question was already out there, now I had to defend myself.
“As a matter of fact, it is real,” I finally added. “I don’t do weaves, wigs, or chemicals. My family comes from good stock.” I took his hand and placed it on my head. “You can pull it if you like.”
“No, I believe you.” His smile traveled all the way up to his beautiful eyes and made me forget that a moment before I’d been offended. I considered the thought that maybe I was just on edge and being too sensitive. It was possible, after all, that he was making innocent conversation that had nothing to do with race. I just needed to chill and let the buzz from my drink kick back in.
“So, Tony, now that you know that I’m married and that my hair is not fake, tell me a little bit about yourself. What type of business are you in?”
“Garbage,” was his one-word answer. I sensed he was being a little evasive.
“Garbage? What is that? Code for the Mafia?” I was joking, but as soon as the words came out, I realized how offensive they were.
“When an Italian guy says he’s in the garbage business, why does everyone assume it’s the Mafia or something?” It was his turn to sound defensive, and I couldn’t blame him one bit.
“I know, I know, and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. That’s just as bad as when a black man says he’s a deliveryman, and people automatically think that’s code for drug dealing.”
“Exactly. Now, how would you have felt if I automatically assumed you were somehow involved in the drug business just because you’re black—correction, African American?”
Oh, if you only knew ...
“Point taken,” I replied. We both retreated into our drinks for a minute to avoid any more uncomfortable conversation.
After a while, Tony looked at me with a mischievous smirk on his face.
“What’s so funny?” I reached for a napkin, thinking maybe I had something on my face.
“No, no, I’m sorry. I just had a thought ... ,” he said, still with that smirk on his face.
“A thought about what?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. It’s totally inappropriate.” Of course, this just made me even more curious.