My sister told me yesterday that she saw me driving my new car. She couldn't see my face she recognized me from my hair. I started thinking about how much my hair is mentioned on a regular basis. Just in the last few weeks I have been told, completely out of the blue, that I have pretty hair by four or five people. My mother says it matches my personality, wild and untamed.
The funny thing is I don't do anything to it. I don't even brush it. I run my fingers through it on a regular basis though. I don't curl it or dye it. I don't mousse or fluff it. I don't dry it unless I'm going somewhere that wet hair doesn't work. In fact I only bought a hair dryer about 4 months ago. The things I do for church.
I get it cut about once every six months; usually for a special occasion. It has been long enough to sit on and short enough to put Tinkerbell to shame. On first inspection it is jet black and curly. Thick and shiny. If you manage to get me into a beauticians chair and are able to look at it closely you will see that it is every hair color imaginable. I have black, blonde, red, brown, and even gray mixed in. I also have a double crown and a cowlick. Which is why it lays the way it does. I have what is called Good Hair. And if it wasn't so easy to take care of I would be bald.
But, there is a dark side. My hair is evil. I shed like a sheepdog in springtime. I could never be a mistress because you find pieces of my hair everywhere. Heaven forbid anyone I know is ever murdered. I'll be implicated from hair fibers alone.
Speaking of murder, I am convinced that one day my hair will kill me in my sleep. It will wrap around my head and smother me. Or as I recently found out it will smother me while I am exercising. It was wet and heavy and wrapped around my mouth and nose while I was doing yoga. I am currently growing it out in an effort to save my own life.
Rapunzel ain't got nothin' on me
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