Jada Pinkett, the wife of Will Smith and my new official spirit animal, took to Instagram yesterday to offer an ambiguous take on the situation she helped create after the husband she has been abusing for years snapped, taking out his battered husband syndrome on Chris Rock’s left cheek at this year’s Oscars.

Her post on IG was one cryptic sentence; “Tis the season for healing, and I’m here for it.”

If I could speak to Jada and offer her some unsolicited advice, from one folliclely-challenged human being to another, it would be as follows; sometimes the healing we’re there for is directly related to the harm we’re responsible for, and if we really want to comb through the inventory of our inner selves to find the root cause, we will be unable to brush off how we feel about the aesthetics of outer selves.

Some are saying she has a disability because of her badness, and to that I say no goddam way. Her head is so glorious that she would be foolish not to lobby The Academy to choose her as the next likeness for the new version of the Oscar trophy itself.

Pinkett is just like me: we both wash our faces all the way to the back of our heads, and I too would have carried myself as a mafia don at the Oscars, my gorgeous cranium punctuating my profound contempt at the G.I. Jane joke delivered by Rock, causing the hair all over my body except my head to stand on end.

That ninja-level ability to melt her partner’s obvious approval of the joke and prompt him to assault Rock is only matched by the ability to rub a balloon all over her head without anything happening whatsoever. And I get it. Like I really get it.

As far as Will Smith slapping Chris Rock is concerned, Pinkett’s role seems pretty clear – there’s absolutely no way she is an abusive partner. It is literally impossible to suggest she has emasculated her husband to the point that he became violent with an innocent third party who made a crack about her alopecia, a condition that directly relates to her good fortune of being beautifully bald. Jada has always been Will’s best friend, and has never done a thing to signal she might not have his best interests in mind. Full stop. True story. No doubt about it. None. Zilch.

She’s a bald-ass bad-ass. She just hasn’t accepted her destiny. Yet.
But I swear to L. Ron one day she will wake up, see herself in the mirror and think, “After he’s done with breakfast, rehearsing with the kids, sending August an apology for ruining date night, Will really needs to start buffing this shit.”

Amen, sister. Amen.