It’s still January. This has no relation to this post whatsoever. I just think every day in January needs reminding, because your mind may have slipped into another year altogether, when it’s just one month into 2017.
I think a lot, about everything. I’m sort of internet famous but I am a real life nobody. So in real life, I have nobody-things to think about. That’s something I’ve had since I was a kid. One time in class six I used the word ‘whilst’ in an English essay (they called it ‘composition’ which I thought was a daft and complicated name than essay) and the teacher accused me of cheating. The next time I was writing a ‘composition’ (sic), I almost wrote the word ‘plagiarism’ correctly. But I thought about it, did my math correctly with the formula ‘Last time shit happened when I used a clever word, therefore’, and decided to misspell it as ‘playjerizm’. It worked, though I got the stick for trying to use a hard word and misspelling it. I think a lot. Recently I have been thinking about my future parenting life. Whereas I am not sure if I can have children, I am sure that when the damsels are born, they will have the notable handicaps of both my genes and my parenting. Top on that list will be the hate for pets, which if not genetic, will have to be induced: I cannot understand men who keep dogs, cats and maintain eye contact with any animal. The obvious explanation is that such a man is clearly a disney princess. The second explanation is that they played Jumanji a little too much. Back to my future parenting, I anticipate that my children will be more stubborn than a goat with a learning disability, especially since it’s genetic. But I will love them like I love payday in December. As long as they can go to the toilet and poo in the pot correctly, that’s all that matters. I don’t care if your two-year-old will play Mozart or sing with the voice of Christina Aguilera, as long as mine can deposit turds in the proper receptacle, it will be enough to brag about in family gatherings. Take this paragraph as a rant and detach it from the rest of this post: It makes no sense to grow up with pit latrines and leave skid marks in anybody’s home toilet. It’s January and the only way to survive is by remembering every good thing about December. And in that process, I remembered a day in that glorious month where a friend visited and left skid marks in my fantastic toilet seat. He grew up to pit latrines, which are the epitome of squat geometry, positional trigonometry and shooting precision, but still managed to just… Look. Aim, shoot and clean up any stray bullets. Thank you.
Now to this story. I have a friend called Charles. We call him Chaaaarlie (There is a Luo accent in that name that cannot be reciprocated in written words). I always find it a little hard to believe that nothing is wrong with Charlie. Charlie’s eyes are unusually large and popped; like they’re not pocketed on the eye socket normally. He always looks surprised, scared, excited. For me, it’s different. I see things beyond the usual. I have watched enough movies (1000 ways to die), and everytime I’m scared for Charlie when I see him; He looks to me like he’ll lose its eyes if he farts too hard. Don’t laugh, please. It’ll make me feel about myself for being concerned when I have done worse things: We had double glass doors at my former workplace but only one stayed unlocked. Once in a blue moon a small child would run full speed into the locked door. It filled me with a lot of happiness. So I have done worse things and concern isn’t.
Charlie came running to me last week after work… He had something important to say, and because of Charlie’s eyes, I usually pay attention even if I don’t want to. I am petty: As a 3 year old, I once threw a temper tantrum because I couldn’t get rid of my shadow. Since then, I have matured from an irrational, argumentative toddler into an irrational, argumentative 25 year old. I don’t argue with men, because as I have said severally, I have the physique of a fat, crippled cow. Charlie looked at me, and hoped I had the answers to all his problems. However with the number of useless arguments I pick with women there’s a very real danger I’ll start lactating.
“Are foreheads that important Irvin,” He asks.
“I’m not entirely sure you’re asking the right question, or the right person. What are you asking.”
“Irvin, I’ve had an argument with Janet about foreheads, and she keeps insisting it is a sign of her natural beauty. That many girls wish they had a forehead.”
Pause. Let’s go back a little. Janet has this Friends with Benefit arrangement with Charlie. But her tantrums are worse than mine. On 17th August 2016, she threw a fit because Charlie didn’t butter both sides of her bread. I remember the exact date because I was there, and it was the most exciting fight I saw in the second half of that year. Now, an argument about the importance and cosmetic relevance of the part of the head between the eyebrow and the portion of the frontal bone of the skull that is known as the squama frontalis (Pause, clap, go on…) is not far-fetched. On her Instagram account, she has countless photos of #TeamForehead.
Once you believe, as I do, that the only end to stupidity is death, your mind adapts and recreates conditions for you to survive in. The whole basis of natural selection is accepting that a lion eats meat and I am meat and I need to run. So, I feel for Charlie, because what Janet has is a receding hairline, an unnatural hairline and not a forehead. He found it hard to explain this to her, and instead blamed the whole colony that is #Teamforehead for taking the SI Unit of beauty a few steps back. I looked at Charlie, Charlie was desperate for an answer.
Inner me was saying this: I don’t see a solution to your girl problem, and things will only get worse from here. You are clearly being punished by the universe for some past wrong you don’t remember: You pull off so many immoral acts it’s hard to single any one thing out. This, like my argument problems with women, is a testosterone problem. He like myself, does not believe in the power of shaving all hair on your face and body… But he does it anyway. That’s our point of departure… I don’t shave it all. Hair didn’t evolve over millions of years to be cut and maintained at a height of exactly three millimeters.
But here’s what I told him instead… I told him foreheads are the most beautiful thing on a woman’s face (Of course I ignored facial, posterior and anterior physique). Instead of judging a woman’s beauty by something trivial like her character or her accomplishments, you need to evaluate a woman based on her forehead. A woman in #Teamforehead is a winner by nature: She grew up through years of body shaming (Because primary school was lines of hair or a clean shaven head, and that doesn’t look very feminine on #Teamforehead), But now there is a curl dangling on the forehead and she is more confident than a modern day politician. A woman in #Teamforehead will post a selfie on Instagram and caption it with #Teamforehead… Meaning you have absolutely no space to body shame her.. Her calculation is precise and wipes out any chance in a million years for you to get back at her. It’s like telling me I have no masculine body and I know it already; When St. Peter reviews my life in heaven, my sins and good deeds will be a major footnote compared with whether or not I hit the gym to lift metallic problems (basically that is a summary of saying I don’t care much. #Teamforehead is a woman who will be bold enough to reply your message in the first minute unlike the other women teams who focus on their accentuated abdominal abilities… Who will reply to your texts in intervals of 27minutes and more, but end up single at 35 with the body count of a Burundian Genocide Commanding General. She will cook good food knowing she has nothing to lose if you leave her (That’s why she’s a FWB). So by all means.
I think I helped Charlie… Quite a lot. Just yesterday he was in Janet’s selfie… It had the caption…
“#BFF (Men, this is the guy who will replace you the minute you start acting too sweet. The minute your outward show of love takes a two day bow, this BFF you were told is not a problem will be in the photos with #Bae, which is the saddest hashtag of the millennial generation)…😍❤ #TeamForehead.
But ladies, we need to have a real discussion, where we can draw the line, set the formula and like all proper scientists, decide where #Teamforehead ends and #TeamRecedingHairline starts. Where it stops looking like Rihanna and starts looking like Obasanjo/Maghufuli
Goodbye. Enjoy the week ahead.
The beautiful woman in the picture is not known to me by any means. It is a photo courtesy of YouTube. If you know her, tell her she is beautiful and is not Janet by any means. Thank you for understanding.