Then I had a really, really bad year at work. I had a coworker who was bat-shit crazy and attached himself to me like in infected hemorrhoid. As a result of hating myself and hating him even more, I cut my hair (it took three visits because the stylists were afraid that I was also bat-shit crazy), foiled my hair, let it grow out again, foiled my hair, cut it again, put in keratin to straighten my hair, foiled my hair, let it grow out again, and finally, little by little, I let it go gray again and I chopped it.
Some people are attached to their hair. I find it a necessary inconvenience in order to cover up what is probably a misshapen head from multiple stupid accidents growing up to beating it against concrete walls as an adult (both literally and figuratively). I do find it fascinating that my hair cannot decide if it's straight or curly. Mostly, it's wavy. When it's long, it vacillates between being straight and being clown-like frizzy. When I cut it, it often sproings into weird curls, sometimes all of it heading one direction, and sometimes it looks more like an explosion in a spaghetti factory.
I'm not going to lie; I'm liking the gray. It's not 100%, so maybe that's why it's kind of bitchin'. But, if I know me, by the next time I go to the stylist, I'll be saying silly things like, "Throw some low lights in there for me..." because, much as the silver streaks are kind of cool, I'm not really old enough yet to look this old, and, lord knows, I'll never be mature enough for my real age, anyway.
For now I'm enjoying simple things like not rolling over in my sleep onto a ponytail and giving myself a neck ache, not needing to find that perfect part line in my imperfect skull, or having the perfect blow-dry straight style until I discover it's drizzling out and I arrive at work with super-curly hair. I'm also enjoying being able to get the brush through my hair without ripping pieces of scalp off.
