There are times during the day when my husband will call and instead of getting the requisite “Hi honey, how’s your day” check-in, I’ll hear, “Hey, guess where I found your hair today?” I don’t like this game since it’s not my fault that I shed so often. It’s not my fault that long after I visit your home, you’ll pull black strands from the carpet fibers. These quadrillion strands are not my minions nor do they collectively do my bidding.
If I did wield that kind of control, they would have gone back in time and taught Dog the Bounty Hunter a more racially tolerant vocabulary and the ability to shut the hell up. I’m really disappointed in Dog. Now where am I going to watch Pacific islanders on television? All I have is the Lilo and Stitch and that’s a cartoon. Of course, there’s LOST and I’m hoping that the polar bear isn’t really a polar bear, but the ghosts of native Hawaiians who demand either their land back or an answer as to why people who are stranded on an island aren’t more unattractive.
Back to my hair.
If my hair had any say in the decisions I have made, it would probably have said, “Girl, are streaks natural?” If my hair could speak, it would drop words like “Girl” and “Oh no you didn’t” because my hair would be part gay, part Rosie Perez.
Two weeks later:
And since you’ve been such great internet friends, let me share with you a picture of my 15-year-old goth-wannabe self:
Can’t you see the pain? The angst? The wet n’ wild lipstick?