I have a strange relationship with my hair. It’s more of an emotional dependence for reasons which are unclear to me. My mother always kept my hair waist-length when I was a kid…I suppose out of habit I kept it long…until when I was in college I cut it chin-length in a fit of, “let’s try something NEW!”. As the beautician handed me the mirror, terror struck. Immediately I mourned my missing locks; then began to resent those that remained for being a mere remnant of the glorious tendrils that preceded them. I thus engaged in a full-scale, balls-to-the-wall growing-out process, which, in case you didn’t know, is long, arduous, and ultimately unbearable. Which is why I shall never get it hacked again. You have to fix hair more the less of it you have. This is coiffure irony.
So, minus four inches now and I must say I like it quite a bit. My ponytail is significantly shorter, but considering I work in a restaurant this is probably a good thing.
It was rather sad to see my four inches laying, rather dejected-looking, on the floor. Perhaps I should have gathered them up and bundled them in a hankie, assuring them that I still loved them and would take good care of them, split ends and all.
voulez-voulez-vous gotta love low-maintenance.