I blame it on my mom. She reared me with a taste for curly hair, ironically, because my own locks are p-p-p-poker straight. But that doesn’t mean I can’t look at other people’s curls, or touch them for that matter…
My mom grew up with two boys, brothers called Rob and Billy Rufus, who, according to legend, had lush, epic curls, that bobbed when they walked and could be seen from miles away. I imagine their stove pipe jeans and thin Tshirts, bare feet skimming the hot pavement bordering Durban beach front, surfboards at arms-reach, melting ice cream cones and The Kinks playing somewhere in the background. It’s really not my fault that the interest has reached such mythological proportions, what with the profusion of yellowing Polaroids and snippets of remembered information:
‘their father was a minister…’
Sons of a preacher man?! Get out.