My big brother Frank used to have the coolest Afro. He looked just like one of the Harlem Globetrotters. Frank used to run the corner store a couple blocks away from our house. When summertime came around, I couldn't run to the store fast enough. I'd skid through the doorway and head straight to the back of the store where the fridges were. I would pick out my favorite soda first. Then I'd walk over to the chip aisle and pick out my greasy salt and vinegar potato chips. But I would always save the best for last; the candy. Sometimes I'd get sour belts, and licorice, other days gummi bears and chocolate covered raisins. It all depended on my mood. But Frank was always there. He'd sit behind the counter and grin his big friendly grin. Then he'd take out his pick and make sure not a hair was out of place. People would come into the store sometimes and say "Frank, how can you deal with hair like that in heat like this?!" He would smile, and say "I don't mind." One old lady would always walk in and say "Boy, you look like you gotta football helmet on your head! Isn't all that hair heavy?" Frank just said, "Feels just fine to me."
Frank was always polite with the customers. He was even polite to the robber who came in to rob the convenience store. It wasn't until the guy pulled out the gun, that Frank really realized he might be in trouble. My mother still talks about how it was a miracle that Frank wasn't killed that day. The robber pistol whipped him, and then proceeded to empty the register. Frank got away with just a concussion and a few stitches. The doctors said Frank's injuries were fairly minor and that he would make a full recovery, but they were wrong. See, when the doctors stitched up his head they had to shave off all his hair. A little piece of Frank died that day. He's never been the same since then. We all told Frank he should grow his hair back, but he never has. He's never smiled quite the same way either.
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