I realize this may be a sensitive subject for some of the ladies here and I bet the three black dudes who read this blog are getting ready to spit fire at the screen. But this discussion isn’t necessarily about what black men find to be deal-breakers, because I think most of us here a passed caring about that so much.

Simple experiment–I went shopping at Wal*Mart, which is LOVED by The Boy, but reviled by me. Mostly because I feel like I need running shoes to go from one end to get milk, head north on Main Street to get lotion and tampons, bust a wide U-turn to get the diapers and then get caught in the line with the chatty senior citizen who wants to have a full-on conversation with every Wal*Mart guest, which would be nice, except for the fact that the line is so long we’re pushed back into the diaper section.

After what seems like 1,232.02 minutes in line, there’s just one more person geriatric Wal*Mart lady needs to talk to and then FINALLY we’re next. Then The Boy starts squeezing himself and hopping back and forth on one foot, which I know can mean only one thing: Somebody is going to have to clean the wee wee off the floor because I’ll be damned if I spend my next birthday in this line!!!

Just kidding. Luckily we had time to bond with other reluctant campers in the line, so they were kind enough to hold my spot while I took The Boy to the bathroom. He’s almost six, and I’m still wavering between letting him go in the big boy bathroom. I let him go and stand outside, partly because I want to make sure I won’t need to drop-kick a perv, and mostly because I’m serving as lookout so we won’t loose our place in line.

While I’m standing there, resplendent in cut-off shorts, a tank top, and a big fat fro made up of the tiniest little spirals that I like to squeeze between my fingers because they go boing, boing, boing!, and I’m doing that while I’m waiting for The Boy. He’s peeing, I’m standing in front of the boy’s bathroom like an id-yot, and rainbeaus are checking for me? Yeppers.

First one walks passed, stares, side smile. Maybe he thinks I’m the Wal*Mart bathroom good-time girl. But then we get back to the line with much distance between me and the urinals, and a three-deep rainbeau crew does a double and triple take.

Me and The Boy walk to Marshalls, his new toy that he earned in a deathgrip as he tells me, to my horror, that he wants to work at Wal*Mart when he grows up. Then Mercedes man, white as rice and acting wiggerish with his blasting some irritating hip hop song, drives by not once, not twice, but thrice, missing about twenty prime parking spaces.

So this incident led me to wondering. Many of you say that wearing your hair natural has attracted a whole different set of dudes. But the reaction be some colored folk have been less than supportive. Some of you have been crushed that your natural hair, given to you by THE BIG DUDE IN THE SKY, is not even accepted by family members and friends.

To be fair, a new online acquaintence of mine named Rico aka”Your Royal Flyness,” (yeah, I know, I know, cocky-arse name, but nice, intelligent guy) who is black, says he prefers women who are 100% natural. Score one for Rico, but when I hear dozens stories about women being commanded to return to the creamy crack or embrace the use of a pressing comb in order to be worthy to be seen out in public, it gives me pause.

Natural ladies, what’s been your experience?