I want to say something profound. But my profundity is drowned out by my hair. I am having hair issues and all I can think about is my hair and how I hate it. The dirty little secret nobody tells you is that when you age, your hair may change. My impressive, thick locks have dared to thin in the front. And then, some of the strands had the audacity to break off. The nerve!
For all I know, my entire head of hair is a shadow of its former self. I only know for sure that my bangs–now grown out to disguise the horror of thinner hair–are not what they were. And my wavy hair has turned curly, unruly and disobedient. I never have a Good Hair Day.
My curly locks come to my shoulders . . . and now I think that longer hair would be perfect. I used to have longer hair and I had it whacked off in one fell swoop because the long hair was weighing me down. Growing out my hair is my main hobby in life. If I’m not growing the length, I’m growing out layers. And then I cut it again. I never learn.
And so, my preoccupation with my hair, my self-loathing when I see my hair, and my bewilderment about my hair–should I stop using a blow-dryer and curling iron entirely?–take up all the space in my brain where I used to develop thoughts.
My hair is ruining my life. Why does my hair matter so much to me? (Don’t answer that. It’s because I am shallow and vain.)
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My hair takes approximately five minutes to “do.” Because it seems so fragile, I am reluctant to submit it to torturous hot appliances. I do have it foil-highlighted, but my colorist only does the roots, not the entire length of hair.
I took this photo just a few moments ago. Apparently, not only do I need a hair transplant . . . I also need Botox.