When the bald man asks to speak for his baldness, he is not condemning the hirsute man. He simply wants to tell the feel of rain on his naked head. When one speaks of privilege, he is not condemning its owners. He simply asks to be the owner of his stories.
Back then, I met a woman. She was beautiful and her caramel skin made her even look more irresistible. She had large round bronze eyes. Her laughter sounded like an arrangement of musical chairs in an orchestra. She stood out from a sea of people. I initiated a relationship with her. What made me initiate something was the sole fact that she was intellectual. We could speak about anything without the sparks ebbing off.
So today when I was in a Little Hailey cab, window slightly rolled down, I let my mind wander far and wide. I thought of the good women that left because I was too indulged in my own ways. I came to the conjecture I would still do it all again because mitzvah is not mitzvah if it is not good for me. “But I did laundry, and I always cooked for you,” is not a line of defense.
When that woman came into my life, I only had a single request for her. I told her to keep me on toes because I needed that to be a good man to her. I wanted to know her dreams, so she shared them with me. And when she mentioned what she liked, I did what I did and turned it into a reality so that she could keep me on toes. She was a good woman. Athena could not rival her beauty. She cooked heaven and all the universe would bow down to her marvelous delicious dishes. In those dark days when I would feel low, she would cuddle the storms away. She would serenade me into a beautiful sweet lull hence calming the waves till I slept in a curled fetal position.
Though that was not why I courted her. I pursued her because she was intelligent, she had wonderful dreams. When she opened her mouth to speak of our future, her words were interwoven with ingenuity. She saw the man I saw in me. She was good for my soul.
So somewhere along the lines she changed. She would say that I was not giving her enough attention. So I doubled up on what I did best, hoping she would work more and achieve more on the reality that we had made out from her liking. I had hoped that she would inspire me more. Instead she ran the reality to the ground and doubled up her whining. She still cooked heaven and the universe with all that is in it bowed down to her cookery skills each time. But I knew she was no longer good for me.
I am a man. I am complete. Every time, I initiate or get into a relationship, the query “who am I?” takes precedence. From there on, I decide how I will engage a woman. Perhaps this is one of the reasons I have slept with terribly broken women. I almost dated a broken woman and it was disastrous. Since then I made a vow never to date a broken woman. I know who I am, and I value sentimental mental health, peace, and happiness.
But when they would later come and say, “but I was so good to you, and do you know how many people I rejected just to be with you?” Such things never give me sleepless nights because that is why I never brought them into my life in the first place. I have never dated women because they were attractive. I can easily get that from Tinder and those night nurses who masquerade in the form of escorts.
I do not date because the said so lass is a good cook, I can cook as well. When you get into the life of a man, you study it. You put it on a scale and weigh it against your reality then later decide whether you can deal with it. If you cannot, you walk out. You do not twist him into the man you had imagined. It is either you adapt or ship out.
Ask any inattentive guy you know. It took pain to get here, to know who we are, and to build a purpose on that. A man would bleed profusely before he knows himself. That is why we would normally prefer if you would leave pronto other than going back to the Babylon of empty romance and the recess of time wastage.
To the old flames, I extinguished apologies that you got charred. But I am not sorry that you left. Like you, plenty came and left. Many more will and it is fine. I made peace with that. It does fret me at times because you were all good women. But your goodness was not for me, and so a man must keep walking. Weary and battered, he still walks.
As we are trudging through this storm of a mishap, let the bald man speak. We can tell stories of wet hair but we cannot tell of the belaboring feeling of rain on a bald naked head.