I’ve been told I have beautiful hair on many occasions. It’s long. Super long. Right-above-my-butt-cheeks long. It’s blonde. Naturally curly; something that I’ve been told every girl dreams of having. While all those things may very well be true, I have to say, I hate my hair – most of the time.
It can be a pain in the derriere to fix in the early morning hours before work. It tangles. Frequently. To the point that there is a great deal of pain to get the brush through my personal rat’s nest. I must pull all of it over one shoulder to brush the full length of it because, let’s face it, my arms do not bend in such a fashion.
I know what you’re thinking – how is any of this important? In the grand scheme, it probably doesn’t have much weight, but I will say, that just yesterday, I was so pissed at my hair that if I had had a pair of scissors handy, I would be sporting a butch hair cut today. Logically, I know that I could improve my feelings for my hair if I just got it cut shorter, but I hesitate.
My hesitancy stems from the 6-inch scar that runs from the base of my neck up to middle of the back of my skull – it was a gift from the neurosurgeon who performed my brain surgery in 2004. This is not something that I want to explain over and over and over. Not to mention the weird stares and gawking that would surely accompany a substantial scar that is visible through the hairline. So, no, I will continue to wrestle with my disobedient locks.
With that decision, I’ve made my bed and will lay in it, but I don’t always have to like it. It’s something all of us must do when we make a decision. Where any choice we make doesn’t result in the happiest outcome. Where we must choose the lesser of two evils.
For now, I hope that I don’t have another one of those truly bad hair days any time soon. Maybe I should just whip out my straightening iron, and use the force of heat to make my mane submit to my will. What is more likely is that I will twist in into a bun and secure it to the back of my head – like I do most days.