This is DM, and we're at number twelve.

I used to work at a nursing home, at the reception desk. As a result, I was often the first point of contact for families visiting residents. This one guy would visit his mother about three times a week. He was nice enough, but never chatty. One night he comes in, heads my way, leans over my desk with urgency in his eyes, and says, "I can help." I ask him, "Help with what?" He says, "Your problem. With your hair." I say nothing, he goes on. "What you need is margarine. That'll weigh it down. Fix your problem." I said thank you.

Maybe this had nothing to do with the new afro pick I bought the next day. Maybe. Nowadays, I often have a good intention checked by hearing Yvette Nolan's voice in my head, echoing from our days together at Native Earth, "Donna, don't help."

(photo by Isidra Cruz)