I am obsessed with my hair.
No. not to the point that I actually take super-awesome care of it, though I do take my vitamins and use natural stuff on my hair.
I touch it a lot, running my hand over the smooth surface, or running my fingers through it, and getting them caught in the tangles. I’ve caught myself doing it in public, but hopefully I don’t do it enough to draw attention. It’s mostly an unconscious, multi-tasking habit that I fall into at home as I work/read/write on the couch or walk up and down the stairs, looking for misplaced items, such as my glasses, phone, Christmas checks, or my sanity.
I’m trying to grow it long, longer than the last time I can remember having crazy, long hair, which I guess would be third grade, based on my parents’ school picture collage that circles around from kindergarten through my senior year of high school. I don’t remember exactly how long it was then, but I don’t think that it was quite “Rapunzel” length yet — not that I want it to be Rapunzel-long, mind you, but hippie-long would be nice.
Normally my hair’s life cycle consists of this pattern: shoulder-length — pixie cut — shoulder-length- back to pixie cut. This is an abbreviation of my previous pattern: a few inches past my shoulders — just above my shoulders — just past my shoulders — just above my shoulders — and REPEAT.
My more recent and shocking pattern was a result of restlessness and frustration with my life, which led me to change my hair, instead of the more difficult option. I went from a long-haired brunette to a blonde-highlighted pixie-cut. The change was so drastic that even I was disoriented when I heard people ask about the new blonde wandering about the school.
I loved the short hair. Showering was a breeze and blow-drying was unnecessary. The only pain-in-the-bottom part was trying to style it, because without the gel I could definitely be mistaken for a male, whereas with the gel, my chances were 50-50.
But the reason my hair is not short at this moment and has already reached passed my shouldersis that some time ago I had a few dreams in which I had long hippie-like hair. The dreams must have been particularly vivid and pleasant at the time, because instead of hacking the whole thing up to some symbolic party from my subconscious — as I usually do — I forewent the dream interpretation gig and determined the dream was telling me something important was going to happen when I — or by such time as I– had that long hair. And by golly, I was going to be ready for the universe with that long hair. I would actually feel that wind blowing through my hair, and I would know that when I tossed my hair back over my shoulder, it would actually stay there, instead of whipping back in my face.
And I figured this could be my last chance to try such a feat. Who knows what could happen in the future? My hair could turn various shades of gray or simply start falling out. Perhaps less likely, I could end up having a baby. In this case I would be forced to chop off all of my hair again, because — let’s face it — when you have a kid, blow-drying, conditioning, or even combing your hair is the least of your daily concerns, in comparison to — let’s say — finding time to shower at all, changing diapers, prepping for feeding, feeding, getting the kid to nap, comforting and holding the kid, entertaining the kid, and getting a chance to eat and nap yourself (and I’m sure I’ve forgotten a whole bunch of things because I’ve never actually had a kid). Yes, extensive hair care would be the first thing to go.
So, I continue struggling to find the right amount and combination of shampoos and conditioners, spend increasing amounts of time combing and drying my hair, and try not cringe as I find more and more hairs in my sink and occasionally in my leftovers at lunch(neither of which I can get away with blaming on Brian anymore).
I knew the risks, and now all that remains is to bet on how long I will last before some early morning rat nest or 2-hour blow drying session leads me to finally snap and shave myself completely bald. Or perhaps instead my poor hairdresser will wake one night to the frantic knocking of a crazed, frizzy-haired woman with multiple jagged chunks of broken combs hanging from her shaggy mane.
Until such time, I will keep running my hands through my semi-long tresses and nuzzling up to Brian, hoping that he will indulge me in the same. Because. let’s face it, there is nothing better than having someone play with your hair.
And yes, I just wrote an entire post about my hair. So there.