Saved By The Weave

When I was in high school, I worked at the ghetto YMCA. You know what I mean. Depending on the city's size, each city has the following YMCAs: the Ghetto Y, the Rich Y, the Gay Y, the Family Y, and the Cop Y. These Ys can sometimes overlap (for instance, the Rich Y may also be the Family Y, depending on median neighborhood income) and sometimes other Y types are involved, but overall, I think you get the idea.

Anyway, I worked at the Ghetto Y. I was the only white girl on staff who wasn't one of the directors, meaning I didn't get to hide in my office from the clientele. This didn't bother me. When I wasn't busy, I spent my time looking up the ghettoest child names I could find in the member database. This was probably the best part of my job. Thanks to my research, my coworkers and I found out that our Ghetto Y was home to children named Chardonnay, Cabernet, Alize, Lo'real (which I originally thought was low-REAL but was actually the cosmetics company), D'Jamildo, Kartwinisha, and probably half the menu at Taco Bell.

Another great part of my job was the Weave Watch. Now, at the Rich Y, women show up to work out carrying thousand dollar handbags and wearing full makeup. At the Ghetto Y, ladies show up with their hair did. They don't get in the pool and they won't use a machine that requires them to recline, but they will show up fly. And sometimes they will fight each other.

One night I was working at the front desk, where I could see the swimming pool viewing area. A few adults were sitting around while their kids did a lesson, and although they didn't seem to be talking, apparently, a few of them had once been friendly. What I understood from the sudden "Bitch, you best" outburst was that one woman had once slept with the other woman's boyfriend, who also happened to be there. Words were exchanged, threats were made, and as we watched, something flew through the air.

I didn't even see it at first. I was too busy trying to decipher what the hell was going on. What made me stop was that one woman's hair got smaller. Where there was once a lacquered plastic swoop of stuff was now a tiny little frayed nub. I looked at the floor, and there it was. Removed from the head, the weave looked negelected and sad, possibly like a discarded rag or drowned rat. The woman who had just recently been attached to the weave didn't seem to notice that the other had ripped it from her head, and both had to be removed from the Y.

While my story is certainly awesome, it doesn't compare to the woman who was saved from a gunshot by her bulletproof weave. YES. As Fox 4 News in Kansas City said, it's unbeWEAVEable!