On any day in New York, between the hours of 8 a.m. and 8 p.m., you can come face-to-face with Bow Wow. In the men’s sections of Black beauty supply stores, his airbrushed mug and smizing hazel eyes are plastered on nearly every package: brushes, afro picks, curl sponges, curl cream, velvet durags, satin durags, silk durags, uh, turban durags. Sometimes I’ll just walk into the shop to closely examine his mannerisms on each cardboard box. The one where he’s staring into my soul. The other in which he’s hitting an America’s Next Top Model shampoo commercial pose. My favorite is when he stares off into the distance like a soldier at war, thinking about his girl back home.
The actual reason Bow Wow is all over these shops is pretty straightforward: He’s a partner, brand ambassador, and content creator for the luxury beauty line Red By Kiss. But that doesn’t make it any less funny that you can just stumble into an aisle that feels like a tomb dedicated to the former Columbus-raised child rap star turned hip-hop heartthrob turned hood-acclaimed actor (I still tear up when Morris Chestnut adopts him and Jonathan Lipnicki at the end of Like Mike) turned easily trolled and memeable nostalgia act. If there were a cult that viewed Bow Wow as their leader, this is where they would go to spread the word. Today we honor the creator of “Fresh Azimiz,” the star of Roll Bounce, the former host of 106 & Park. Let us pray! Last week, I wandered around a few shops in New York with two burning questions on my mind: Is anyone else as hypnotized and amused as I am by Bow Wow having beauty supply stores on lock? Also, why Bow Wow?
My first stop was Eve Beauty Source near Union Square, next to the Strand. Inside looked like any other beauty shop—wigs in the back, buckets of cheap sunglasses and door-knocker earrings, a distinct scent formed through the combination of chemicals and natural butters. Within seconds, in the far-right aisle, I was standing in front of the dozen faces of Bow Wow—surprised, serious, seductive—as Kehlani’s “Folded” gently played. What caught my eye was his “silky spandex durag,” but when I went to grab it off the hook for a closer look at the package, it was locked. I waved down an employee, a middle-aged woman with a thick Jamaican accent wearing the kind of cotton-candy pink tracksuit Amy Poehler wore in Mean Girls, to help me out. She looked at me like she knew bullshit was about to come out of my mouth.
“You ever think about how many items in this area have Bow Wow’s face on them?” I asked.
“Well, he’s a star,” she said, sucking her teeth.
“You think so?” I pressed.
“Yes, like Puma gives Usain Bolt money because everyone loves him,” she explained.
“Is Bow Wow as loved as Usain Bolt?”
“Of course, he’s Bow Wow” she said, cracking a smile, as if memories of him were coming back to her.
She went off to get the key, but took a while so I just ripped the package off the buckle.
“Why would you do that?” she asked. “What if you want to return it?”
“I would never return anything with Bow Wow’s face on it,” I said, and that answer seemed to satisfy her.
In that brief exchange, though, she made a point that was a revelation for me: He’s Bow Wow. That’s it right there. It doesn’t matter if he ever puts out another hit song, leads another cable rewatchable, or hosts another BET program; like a lot of the nostalgia for young celebrities of the 2000s, his fame has more to do with being famous at a very specific moment in time than anything he actually made. As I write this, Bow Wow is gearing up to co-headline a 28-city arena tour with B2K to celebrate 25 years in the game, and, outside of a few major hits, the setlist is secondary to just going on stage and being Bow Wow.
