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“Miss Pasha, ain’t shit new, boo. I’m doin’ me. Ridin’ down on a nice hard dick every chance I get and collectin’ them child support checks. And, of course, I’m always in search of new sponsors.”
Pasha laughs. “Girl, you and your sponsors. But I ain’t mad at you.”
“Girlfiend, puhleeze. These trick-ass hoes better get with the program. Ain’t no sense in fuckin’ for free when you can get paid for it. Although if I was a niggah, I wouldn’t pay for shit. I’d have hoes payin’ me for a ride on my dick. And hopefully I’d be one of those niggahs blessed with a big, ole long, black, veiny dingdong.”
She laughs.
“I’m serious, Pasha, girl. Shit, think I ain’t.”
“Girl, I already know.”
“Mmhmm. If I’m gonna wet a dick, then I need to get paid to wet it. Shit. I have kids to feed.”
As I’m lookin’ in the mirror, I see some rusty, dusty bitch sittin’ in the chair across from me, makin’ a face, but I put her on ignore real quick since I’m not sure if she’s makin’ that ugly face because of what I said or if her stylist’s pussy stinks since she has it practically all pressed up on the bitch’s neck as she braids her hair. Now, you know, I like to try and keep it classy before I turn on the ghetto switch and hooker-bop a bitch in the mouth, which is why I decide to dismiss it.
But in my mind, I’m thinkin’, “Strike one, bitch!”
Pasha cracks up laughin’. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that, girl. Do you.”
“Always, Miss Pasha Girl. If I don’t do me, who else will? That’s what’s wrong with a lotta these hoes out here today, they don’t know how to do them. They too busy hatin’ on the next bitch and stressin’ over the dumb shit. And no-count niggahs. My motto is: hump ’em ’n dump ’em. A niggah can’t act right, move onto the next. How you think I ended up with eight baby daddies? Besides the fact I love the dingdong.”
Rusty Crusty frowns again. Strike two, bitch!
Pasha spins me around in the chair again. Now I’m facin’ the bitch across from me. She shifts her eyes. I stare her down. “Speaking of your kids, how are they?”
I grunt. “Bad as ever. Hell, the only ones who don’t give me any problems are DaQuan and Marquelle. They are both doin’ great. DaQuan’s still at Howard. And my baby Marquelle is in his last year of high school.” She wants to know if Marquelle’s still playin’ basketball. “Girl, what else is that six-foot-five niggah gonna do, but play ball? I will fuck him up real good if he even thinks about messin’ up gettin’ me floor seats at all the NBA games. Honeeeey, LeBron James’ momma aint’ gonna have shit on me, okay. I’ma be runnin’ all through them games, doin’ it up, boo.”
She laughs as she starts cuttin’ out my sew-in. “Girl, you’re a mess. I heard that. And is he goin’ away to college in the fall?”
“He better be if he knows what’s good for him. Or get fucked up, okay. I might be many things, but a mother of some bum-ass niggahs ain’t one of ’em.”
“I know that’s right,” one of Pasha’s newest stylists says, smoothin’ a relaxer through her client’s hair. I ask her who she is. She says her name is Rhodeshia, then asks, “How many sons you have?”
“Nine,” I say, eyein’ her. “I have nine boys, and one girl.”
She gasps. “Ohmygod, you have ten kids?”
“Yes, boo.” I tell her their ages.
“Girl, get. Out. And your body still looks like that? Shoot, I had one baby and it practically tore my body up. I had to have some lipo work done to suck out all the extra fat that wouldn’t go away on its own.”
“Ooooh, poor thing,” I say. “Bless your lil’ chunky heart. Body is one thing I’ve always had.”
“Yeah, that’s true,” Miss FeFe’s nosey-ass says as she comes through with a broom sweepin’ hair up around some of the stations. The only reason the bitch pushes a broom back here is so she can hear what the fuck everyone’s sayin’ ’cause there ain’t shit happenin’ up front. “This traffic-stopper makes me sick wth all that body and booty.”
I catch Rusty Crusty curlin’ her lips. But I don’t strike her ass out since I’m really thinkin’ her stylist must have a rotted cock stuck up in her cooch. So I keep pressin’. “Oh, Miss FeFe, hush. All these niggahs see is this big, juicy ass. They could give a damn about the rest of my body.”
“Girl, please,” Pasha says, wavin’ me on as she removes the last track of weave. “Those long, sexy legs and small waist . . . mmmph. Folks are still talking about you and that dress you wore at my wedding.” She laughs. “I think you got more attention than I did that night. And it was my wedding.”
“Sorry, Miss Pasha Girl, I didn’t mean to snatch your shine. But hon, you know how I do it. If I’m comin’, then I’m comin’ to steal the show, damnit. I don’t play no games, okay?”
She laughs. “I heard that. And girrrl, before I forget, I’m lovin’ the bag. One word: fierce!”
I toot my lips up. “Uh-huh; like me—fierce, sugah-boo. You know how I do. Had one of my young boos sponsor this bag.”
Pasha chuckles. “I know that’s right. Booty, you’re a mess. Oops, I didn’t mean to call you that. You know I always forget your real name, girl.”
“Miss Pasha, girl, you know you cool with me, boo. So it’s all good. You know the niggahs love them some Big Booty, baby.”
