I've tweeted about it. I've mentioned it in passing in my blog posts. And every time I mention the Mexi-fro I was, ahem, blessed with thanks to a round of bad luck in the DNA gene pool, I get plenty of responses asking when I'm going to finally post it for the world to see. You see, dear bloggy world, there's a major difference between bed head and what I wake up with in the morning. I've got curls so kinky my black friends point and laugh.
Need a better visual? Imagine a troll doll. Remember those? Good. Now imagine that it's been electrocuted after your six-year-old little sister has given it a good-old hair combing and made it look, amazingly, worse than it did when your parents caved and finally bought it for you. Now, add some styling products (you know, in a pathetic attempt to tame the troll-doll 'fro) and then place your fuzzy little friend in bed for eight hours (because everyone knows that us freaky curled folks only wash our hair two times a week.)
Eight hours have passed? Good. Now pick up your little so-ugly-it's-cute 'fro-baby and set it in front of the mirror and gently remind it that there is no need to fill the sink and jump the bridge and just end it all because no matter how scary it may look in the morning, you still love it because it's what's on the inside that really matters. Then, when you've talked the troll doll off the ledge (quite literally), start the whole process over again.
Done? Good. Now you know what I look like in the morning.
And you also know why I knew The Husband was The One that first morning we woke up together with me in my mexi-fro glory. Simply put, he didn't run screaming from the room.
Curious enough to see it yet?
I've been trying to think of a reason good enough, worthy enough, to humiliate myself publicly since the first time I tweeted about the mexi-fro and I finally got one. I'm walking in the March for Babies in memory of Juliette Terzieff's little boy, and have a personal goal of $500. If I get to my goal, I take photos first thing in the morning and post them for your point-and-laugh pleasure.
I do reserve the right to put a bra on, get dressed, and paint my face with enough cosmetics to retain the littlest bit of dignity. No need to scare the children, mind you.