I think Jesus had an Afro that was probably much like mine. Mine is big with full large curls. It's hot and dusty were I live and sometimes when I ride on my patrols through these grimy streets, it looks ashen gray and brittle. It holds heat and soot and anything that falls in it, but I will not cut it because it marks my heritage. I am Israeli and I wear my Afro proudly.
At the end of a long day of fishing, my Afro reeks of salt water. It hangs in loose locks, sticky with sea mist. My mother threatens to take the shears to it. I'm just an unkept wooly sheep that the girls take a liken to. They say my red bush brings out a devilishly green in my eyes. I'm Irish and I wear my Afro proudly.
The humidity on this Island is terrible for my Afro. It makes it tight and kinky, almost unmanageable. A constant sheen of sweat coats my scalp and relief only comes at the end of the day when I wash the scent of earth and olives from my skin and hair. I'm a proud Sicilian and my Afro marks me as such.
At one point, my Afro was 5 inches thick with a 6 inch Afro pick sticking out the top. The effect was kinda like a Peacock strutting through the Ghettos of intercity America. And at the 1968 Olympic Games in Mexico City, when Tommie Smith and John Carlos pumped the "fight the power" fists on top of that Olympic podium, I would swear it grew another inch. Say it loud, I'm Black, Jewish, Irish, Sicilian, and I'm proud of my Afro.