Where art thou Madame C.J.?

Neva, eva, eva, eva should I be at a salon longer than I be at my job or given my sketchy attendance record at certain places of employment let's just say longer than I am scheduled to be at work.

I was at the salon today for a day of work plus overtime. Oh, the burden of being black, female and a follower of Madame C.J. Walker's inventive hair straightening imperative!

Why didn't I just leave? Because I had been washed and blowdryed. I was stuck, tethered to the fucked up sepia salon system.

I wanted to cry, I wanted to scream, I wanted to yell but I sat and calmly waited for my stylist who never apologized but did my hair well, better than any of the many stylists I have patronized in the city.

I swallowed my tears, my bitter pill, hoping not to upset my stomach, sensitive from my monthly menstrual cramp induced O.D. on Advil. I think I need to upchuck my stomach contents but they're already digested. Circulating through my blood stream are years of bitter pills born out of frustration, powerlessness against some affront, some evil, some inconsideration or some injustice.

Jagged as it is upchucking probably isn't the best idea. It would be best not to ingest it at all. But before ingestion comes that creative(destructive) impulse and that's what with God's help I can suppress.