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Let the Pain Begin!




Well, dear reader, I have reached a point that I knew was inevitable. A point that I dread, but I will face it with staunch determination. I will muster all my courage, dig deep into my reserves, and brace myself for the next few months or longer. With sheer determination, I face the road ahead of me. You find yourself asking, "What is wrong?" Well, dear reader, allow me to tell you my plight of woe. I have decided to start growing in my hair. There, I have said it out loud. It is such a relief to get it off my chest. Whew!


I jest...mostly. However, I feel it is important to jest and laugh in light of what is going on around us. So, please allow me to entertain you with my tale of woe and my lamenting of the poor life choices I make. You see, this is not the first time I have cut my hair short. Over the years, I have dabbled with various lengths of hair and a variety of colors because A) I am impulsive and don't think things through from beginning to end B) Believe my parents...mostly my dad, stifled my freedom of expression as a child C) Like childbirth...at least this is what I am told, I forget how painful it is to grow my hair in after I have cut it all off.


As a child, I had long, straight, dark hair down to my waist. My dad loved my hair. I suppose as far as hair goes, it was a nice, healthy, shiny head of hair. However, I hated it. I wanted a cute cut, a style, something different than what I already had. I tried negotiating hair cuts with my parents, and I could only make them concede to bangs...sigh. You see, I have an especially high forehead. Not only do I have an especially high forehead, but I am also very fair-skinned. I looked very much like Wednesday Adams as a child. I have always had a somber expression add to the dark hair and fair skin; I could have passed for Wednesday's twin. I would have to sit on a chair in the bathroom while my mom and grandma combed out my hair. Of course, I had to be dramatic and caterwaul like they were murdering me. Then, my grandma would pull out the dreaded metal comb. It would stab me in the scalp like a million tiny needles. Not only did it prick my delicate little head, but it also dragged the knots tugging and pulling to the very end. Lastly came the braids. Oh, yes, the braids. My grandma would braid my hair into to even plaits going down my back. I would bawl the entire time...loudly and dramatically. My mom would say, "Oh, you will look like a little Indian girl riding your pony with your braids flying behind you!" I would bawl loudly with snot running down my face, "I don't want to look like a little Indian girl!" Ah, good times.


Move ahead to ninth grade. Finally, the summer before I went back to ninth grade, my mom gave in to my begging. She made a covert appointment with a hairdresser...my grandma's hairdresser...and took me to get my hair cut AND permed. Oh, yes, the spiral perm. My hair was now up to the middle of my back and hung in perfect, tight, spiral curls. I loved it. My dad, not so much. He blew a gasket, went to the bar, got drunk, and then ignored me for two weeks. The only thing he said to me in that two week period was, "I can't believe you did that to your hair." and "How could you disappoint me like that?" It all seems ridiculous now. To be honest, it seemed ridiculous then. It's hair, it grows. After that first initial step into the world of hairstyles and fashion, I dove into the deep end. In college, I cut my hair short for the first time. I liked it a lot. I felt edgy, cool, and grown-up. Over the years, I have dabbled with different shades of dark chestnut to auburn. I even did the Sharon Osborne magenta. I hated it. Thank God Brookville got hit with a snowstorm, and I had a week off school to allow it to wash out before my students saw me! Kids are mean.


The last time I cut my hair short willingly was several years ago. I loved it for six months or so, and then I decided to grow it in. I remember distinctly telling Mandi, my stylist, if I ever say I want to cut my hair short, slap me across the head. She has indeed slapped me across the head a few times. This last time of hair butchery was not impulsive, nor fueled by residual rebellion; it was necessary. However, I knew eventually I would become weary of my short coiffe and allow it to grow. Because I am now old-ish, I have begun taking a vitamin for my hair. The Bibbed Wonder is annoyed with me because he says I can't remember to take my medication daily, but I will religiously take a vitamin to help my hair grow. Silly man, he truly has no idea the depths of a woman's vanity. I think my depth may go even deeper than most.


I know I am facing several long-lasting episodes of bad hair. The very act of growing out my cut out ears is going to be painful. I know I will have to look like an Amish boy with a bad cut. I know my bangs are going to have to hang in my face and drive me to the brink of insanity. I know I will have to walk around with a "ninth-grade bob" for an extended period of time as my layers all catch up to one another. It will, indeed, be a painful process. My goal is to get the painful parts mostly out of the way this winter while we are still hiding from the virus. Until then, I will fantasize about a ponytail and using the new curling tool I got The Bean for her birthday. One must have goals to strive for.


As always, dear reader, stay safe, stay smart, be kind to those with bad hair, and of course, wash your hands.




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