Terrible memory

I remember once in the 1970s, sitting in the then-new Pizza Hut in the old home town. Nice-looking business-suited black man and similarly-tastefully-attired woman walk in.

And in his 'fro was stuck one of those pick-combs with the long sharp knifepoint handle.

This struck me for a number of reasons.

Fashion-wise, it completely clashed with his Sunday-duds ensemble. It stuck out. Literally.

Personally, I once (1970s, ok?) briefly had 'fro-like hairstyle and had a hair pick, too - but I didn't wear it in my hair. It was a style then, but, like baggy pants dumb; looked like you got distracted while combing; reminded me of a mad version of those peacock haircombs worn by fancy senoritas.

But the knifepoint handle said, unconcealed weapon. Maybe it was his streetcred totem, a cultural security blanket. He didn't seem, you know, threatening. But there it was. He chose to make that statement. It was threatening. Just like the gun on a cop's hip.

Somehow, we ate our pizza in peace and departed without incident. But it was a close thing, and as you can see, I've never forgotten.

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