My hair is really long. But it's not just long, it's thick. I haz a lot of hair. It's a giftcurseblessing. My dad likes to say, "You've always had the hair," like the hair is the thing to have but I don't think he remembers the blatantly bald state of my cranium for the first few years of my baby life. I think I turned four and woke up with a lion's mane...
(actual childhood photo. #throwback)
(by the way, I'm joking. image via the goog)
In any case, my hair gets super long and I donate it. Repeat.
It's a simple cycle and one that I've enjoyed. I have no deep connection to my hair and it is no great loss to me when I cut it all off. I don't weep or lament the "shick" sound as the scissors gnaw against the blockade of strands and the stylist inevitable gasps, "You just might break my scissors!" and I feel rather like Mia Thermopolis...
I may not be attached to my hair but I am, however, rather fond of my glasses.
The point that I'm trying to get to is that the past couple days have been slightly horrific. Starting with my attempts at putting together a Halloween costume by putting my hair up in sponge rollers.
It took around 50 minutes of hot, arm-numbing work, and multiple moments of despair. I did end up succeeding. And naturally, like the excellent social media addict that I am...I did not get a picture before leaving for de partee.
As hellish as putting my mane into the rollers had seemed, it was nothing compared to the murderous rampage vied against my poor scalp as I tried to remove them that night. I had planned to leave them in over night and see what happened in the morning but, turns out, it's kind of impossible to sleep with a lumpy torture contraption strapped to your head with your actual hair.
I ended up with wadded, tangled bits of hair wrapped so tightly around the rollers I begged Mark to just cut them out. But he was patient (if infuriatingly humored) with my predicament and tried as gently as he could to unknot the bits of hair off the ends of the curlers and return my hair to it's uninhabited state.
Luckily, this was never meant to turn out pretty. I put very little effort into strategically placing the curlers so thankfully I was not ever expecting a usable 'do out of all that. But my goodness, it turned out pretty awful. The back didn't curl at all and, obviously, my short bangs did not receive the process well. But if I ever want to be George Washington for Halloween, I have a spiffy method.
So that was great, I took lots of painkillers and slept on my poofy coiffure and sore scalp.
Then on sunday I attempted a completely simple hairstyle just to get the hair out of my way and off my neck and it completely resisted every effort I made...for like, fifteen minutes. And my hair tie snapped.
My husband says, "Why don't you just leave your hair down more often?"
Why don't you wear a cat around your neck? It's too hot here for that, you cray son?! Ugh, men. He also suggested maybe it's time to go get it cut when he originally proposed that I wait till spring when I had been debating donating it a few weeks ago and when I asked why he changed his mind he said,
"I didn't realize you were gonna complain about it this much."
"I didn't realize you were gonna complain about it this much."
Well then, McSassy Pants.
So I wore it down today, per his genius idea and all day I've been pulling the Ariel...
Except unfortunately I'm not that flirty, or cute, or ginger.
Basically my hair is at it's tantrum stage and is being a meany poop bucket of angst. I envy all you messy bun wearers and ponytail enablers.
And at the end of the day, I do still love my hair. It's a complicated relationship.
