Finding a Husband Who Loves Rainbows

Light-skinned, eloquent, stylish, beautiful, and brilliant. Those are words I’d describe Mrs. Okafor with. She was what this generation of kids would call a baddie principal. The woman had style and class and obviously had a thing for the colours “wine” and red. Think of DJ Cuppy, but the red-obsessed version. We could say DJ Cuppy is to pink, and Mrs. Okafor is to red.

Whatever hairstyle she had or was going to have, one thing was certain: it would be red. Her perm, braids, and weave-ons were all red. Her car was red and slick, too. I found myself wanting to be like her “when I grow up.” “Grow up” being when I graduate from secondary school and start to grow my hair.

I was really excited to start growing my hair and have my own signature hair colour. I wanted red or ginger, especially red because the baddie principal made it such a cool colour. I had this conversation with my mom when I eventually got to SSS3, and she was excited for me. Once I finished school and started to grow my hair to a certain length, we’d dye my hair red. That was our agreement.

The time would eventually come, and I’d grow my hair for three years without executing my grand plan. Even my mother wondered why. I was scared of damaging my hair and kept procrastinating. It became much harder to pull off when I started my natural hair journey three years later. I lived that dream through colourful extensions, and my favourites were purple and blue before I added green to the list. Red didn’t even make it.

Fast forward to nine or ten years since I had that conversation with my mom: I would be ready.
I was upset by the state of my natural hair, which I had grown for four years. It was severely damaged, and I had two options: to cut it off or to trim and loc it before eventually cutting and starting over. However, I felt a need to get a new colour. Now was the time. I was ready. I’d already decided to go ginger. For the longest time, I’d admired ginger heads. I preferred it to blonde. It was either that or purple or green, which seemed extreme to me.

One would think I’d get my mother’s full blessing and even extra when I informed her of my plan. I even sent pictures of the loc styles I was considering. Her response made me want to ask for my real mother, because there was no way the woman talking behind my phone was Iye Ekata.

How do you go from cheering your daughter’s idea of dying hair to saying it was irresponsible? This was the same woman who had the hack of using eyeshadow to temporarily tint a part of her short hair blonde when she was younger. I was mad at whoever she had been rolling with in my absence. They were bad influence and had corrupted the woman’s good manners.

I was upset. I didn’t like her new perspective, but I understood her and respected it. According to her, as a young, unaccomplished girl, no one would take me seriously if I went around with coloured hair, especially coloured locs. Thanks to profiling. I argued that there are very successful and respectable women with coloured hair who are doing well. She agreed, but didn’t think taking a chance on it was wise. She said I should be done with school and be well placed first before deciding I want to look like a tout or pepper seller.

She added, “When you get married, you can do whatever you want if your husband likes it. If you like dye it rainbow, wear your nonsense…” By the way, the poor woman doesn’t approve of my skin-revealing outfits because responsible people don’t dress like that. We’ve had several arguments and agreed that I’ll only be “irresponsible” away from her to avoid arguments. Wait until she finds out I wear anklets. Anyway, when I’m in Rome, I behave like a Roman.

But why am I telling you this? I’m telling you because I need help. I need a husband urgently because the strong urge to go ginger has revisited me. Who knows a man who wouldn’t mind his wife carrying a rainbow on her head and wearing irresponsible outfits? The irresponsible outfit is not even an issue. I’m nearing the age and era where I will evolve into a different style. This phase shall pass, but the need to play around with my hair will not and shall not. Just like my love for accessorizing with cowries shall never die.

So, dear friend, if you know any man who fits this description or you are the man, help my life and donate them or yourself to me. In fact, I’m donating myself. And please, don’t ask me what I’ll bring to the table. All I can offer is a chair with four balanced legs.

Update

Several weeks after writing this, my mother visited me, saw my decorated ankle, shook her head, and gently said in our dialect, “Child, you don’t need all these things you’re doing, ehn. People will think you are irresponsible even if you’re not.” She went on to add that she didn’t have a problem with what I did with myself. The woman was only concerned about how the world would perceive me.

She thinks I might have a problem finding a man who will take me seriously enough to marry me. Again, she said, “If the person you’re seeing or your husband doesn’t mind, wear whatever you like. So long as he likes it.” Then I responded with, “Don’t worry, he will like anklets.” She mistook that for, “I have a man, and he likes the nonsense I wear.”

Looking back at her excitement, I can’t help but smile. With a sheepish smile, she said, “Enh, that’s good. If there’s a man in the picture and he likes it, that’s fine.” I started to laugh and quickly corrected the impression. I had to let her know that her big baby is a single pringle.

By the way, I own a ginger hair now, and my mom loves it. After all, it is not my real hair. As much as I like to be a coconut head sometimes, I know my mom has my best interests at heart, even if I don’t necessarily agree with some of her perspectives. And to be honest, I totally understand her standpoint.

With all that being said, I’m looking for a responsible, God-loving man who likes his woman wearing a rainbow on her head and beads on her ankles and waist. For serious business only. Tenks.