Deep Throat Diva

When Cassandra was in middle school, all the high school niggas started calling her Big Booty ’cause she had a tiny waist, peach-sized titties and this humongous, bubblicious ass that bounced and shook when she walked. Niggas would be sniffing behind her, drooling and whatnot, all mesmerized by the size of her ass. And she’d have them eating out of the palm of her hand—and crack of her ass—for a ride in it. And not a damn thing’s changed. Her body is still tight, and that ass of hers is still bouncing and shaking niggas out of their minds. The only thing is the bitch is mildly retarded. Well, I don’t know that for a fact, if she is or not. But she definitely seems a bit special. I do know, growing up, she spent a lot more time on her back and in the back seats of cars than she did in those remedial classrooms she was supposed to be in. And now all she has to show for her big, juicy ass is nine brats, six baby-daddies, an EBT card, and Section 8 housing. Oh, but she keeps her and her kids laced in all the fly shit, keeps her hair and nails done like clockwork, and is driving a new GTS Cadillac SUV. But has no savings. What a trifling mess!

“No, what happened to her? Don’t tell me she’s pregnant, again.” It was more of a statement than a question.

She laughs. “No, her hot ass ain’t pregnant, again. But she’s laid up in the hospital.”

“What happened?”

“She was fucking some young, hood nigga from around her neighborhood, and his girl done went to her house to confront her, then ended up slicin’ the side of her face wit’ a razor.”

“What, are you fucking serious?” I ask, shocked. Not at the fact that Big Booty got her face slashed—although that’s fucked up, but the idea that bitches are still pulling out razors and slicin’ faces is too extra for me.

“Chile, that ain’t the half of it. Her three oldest kids jumped on the chick and beat her ass into the ground. They kicked and stomped her all up in her face and whatnot and now her head’s the size of a pumpkin.”

I give her an incredulous look. “OhmyGod, are you serious?”

“Baaaaby, serious as a damn heart attack; they dragged her ass something terrible.

“Big Booty had to get ninety-seven stitches to her face, her kids got arrested, and the girl’s in the hospital with a concussion, broken nose, and fractured eye sockets.”

“Wow,” I say, shaking my head. “I hope that dick was worth it. Is she still messing with those credit cards?”

“Yeah; and she done got buck wild wit’ ’em, too. I think she’s addicted to the shit.”

I shake my head. Her ghetto ass’s been fucking with stolen credit cards for almost four years, thanks to some scam artist-slash-hood-nigga she used to fuck with. He showed her how to make a buncha purchases, then sell the shit on the streets. Then when his ass got knocked on burglary and theft charges, she started going to his connect to make moves on her own. Unfortunately, the nigga wanted some pussy and head from her ass, so she eventually started sucking and fucking him to ensure the cards kept coming in.

I look over at the door as it opens. Bianca walks in. She looks fabulous. “Girl, motherhood must be all that,” I say as she removes her coat. She’s stylishly dressed in a pair of tight-fitting jeans that leave nothing for the imagination. She has them tucked into a banging pair of chocolate knee-high boots. And she has a cute, form-fitting brown and beige sweater that hugs her full breasts, and narrow waist. There’s not one ounce of baby fat on her. You’d never know she recently gave birth. “You look good, boo.”

She laughs, walking over toward me. “Thanks,” she says as she sits in the styling chair. “I never thought I’d be the one saying this, but motherhood is all that and some.” Her eyes light up as she speaks. “My son is my pride and joy. I am so in love with him.”

“Oh, I can tell. Girl, I’m happy for you. And your baby daddy?” I ask, teasing.

She blushes. “He’s a great father, and a wonderful man.”

“Ohhhhhkaaaay, so does this wonderful man have a name?” I ask, tying my apron on, then wrapping the shampoo cape around her neck.

“Garrett,” she tells me, smiling. She lifts her left hand and flashes me her ring finger. She’s wearing a glittering two-and-a-half carat princess cut engagement ring set in 18k white gold.

I gasp, clutching my chest. “OhmyGod, girl, your ring is gorgeous.”

To be honest, I’m still shocked over the fact that her ass had a baby, and now to learn she’s engaged. Talk about surprises. Not that we’ve ever been close friends, but when you’re someone’s hairstylist for as long as I’ve been hers, you start to develop a certain rapport. And, although Bianca has always been a very private woman, we’ve had conversations over the years about men and relationships and whatnot. And she’s shared some things to me about her personal life. Not much, though. But there were two things she was clear on: One, she had no use for men, or a serious relationship with one; and, two, she had no interest in having children.

“My how fast things have changed,” I say, leaning her back at the sink. I turn the water on, make sure it’s the right temperature, and then begin wetting her hair. “What ever happened to your ’I’m Done with All Men’ speech?” I ask as I’m shampooing her hair.

“Girl, life happened,” she says, smiling. “A handsomely stubborn man came into my life and refused to be pushed aside, or dismissed. And, in the end, he won me over.”

I smile, genuinely happy for her. She tells me how the pregnancy was unexpected and how she had thought about having an abortion, but couldn’t go through with it. About how she thought about not telling him about the baby and raising it on her own, but felt that keeping it from him wouldn’t have been fair to him because he had the right to know.

“Sounds like you did the right thing,” I tell her, wrapping a towel around her head, then sitting her up in her seat.

She nods. “Yes, I did. I can honestly say I have no regrets.”

I smile, understanding all too well her comment.

As I’m giving her a deep moisturizing conditioning, Shuwanda walks through the door. She speaks—actually mumbles—as she heads toward her workstation. And as usual she looks pissed off about something. But what do I care about her moody ass. She brings in a lot of money so she can mope around here every-damn-day if she wants, as long as she keeps her appointment book full. I don’t bother to ask what’s wrong ’cause: One, she’s the type of chick who likes attention; two, I’m not in the mood to know; three, everything is always a damn crisis for her; and four, if I ask her what’s wrong, she’s going to say “nothing” any-damn-way. So why even bother. That bitch is real pitiful, I think, combing out Bianca’s hair. It has gotten thick and is now almost past her shoulders since she’s had the baby. But her ends are a hot mess! Just like I said they’d be. Lucky for her, there’s not a lot of damage.

I part Bianca’s hair into thin sections, then run it through my middle and ring finger. “Girl, you haven’t been in here in months, and these ends are showing it,” I say, pulling out my scissors.

“I know, girl.”

I add, “You should really have your ends trimmed every eight weeks or so.”

She winces at the thought, like so many other chicks who come into my shop. But they realize I know my shit when it comes to hair. I’m not like some stylists who are “scissor happy.” If I tell you I’m going to trim your hair, that’s exactly what I do. One-quarter to a half-inch; that’s it. You will leave this chair with a trim, not a haircut, unless that’s what you specifically ask for.

“So when’s the big day?” I ask Bianca.

“We haven’t actually set a date, yet. But if Garrett had his way we’d be married— yesterday.”

I laugh. “He sounds like Jasper. Every time we talk, he’s asking”—I dip into a deep voice, mimicking him —“’when we doin’ this, yo?’”

She laughs. “Speaking of that fiiiine-ass man of yours,” Bianca says, “he should be coming home soon, right?”

Everyone knows Jasper’s locked up, so it’s no secret that I’ve been more or less a prisoner’s wife for the last four years. I nod. “Girrrrl, not soon enough. This shit has been hectic.”

“I’m sure it has,” she says, lowering her voice. “Personally, I don’t know how you’ve done it. Lord knows I don’t think I could have been as devoted and committed as you’ve been.”

“Chile, it requires a whole lot of patience and a drawer full of double-A batteries.”

She chuckles. “Good thing it’s almost over.”

“You got that right.”

Shuwanda butts in. “Girlfriend’s good ’cause I couldn’t do it either. Melvin knows if his ass gets knocked,