Over the years, I have helped you grow and nurture your inner "sista," from those first fledgling days when you asked me what the purpose of a doo-rag was, to the day you meekly asked me, "Moxiemie, what does bling-bling mean?" I helped you break down what is known as Ebonics or Black Vernacular English, and even wrote an entire major research paper on the topic for you while you were with Christian during his two weeks of testing at the hospital. With your lily-White lilt, you can kinda-sorta code switch with the best of us.
We talked about the difference between real and fake hair and how to identify a good half-wig from the real deal Holyfield. I've educated you on the art of styling Black hair. I recorded myself doing my relaxer to feed your fascination with straightening African-American hair and sent it to you. When somehow at work the conversation turned to Black hair care and your boss said she knew it cost hundreds of dollars for "Black people" to get a relaxer, you stood up and were able to vehemently (with appropriate gurrrlfriend neck-rolling and finger-waving) say that you KNEW a relaxer could be purchased for five bucks at the grocery store and could be applied at home because you've seen it with your own eyes.
However. Though I've given your inner sista the name of Bonquisha Keylolo Jenkins, you are, in fact, still just a White girl on the outside – a lesson I'm sure you've learned now that you've tried to apply the hair care products I left there in December to your hair.
I'm off to get my beta now, but this evening after you get home from work, call me and I'll tell you the beauty interventions that will be necessary to strip your hair of the oils that were meant for, y'know, Black folks, and tell you how to restore your hair's appropriate moisture levels.
Loving you in all your Whiteness,
For all my regular readers, if you don't click on any other link in the above passage, you absolutely must click on the last one. Poor Becky.