That's My Bix!

My hair got caught on Esteban’s jeans.

Wait, wait, back up: they were off at the time.

Oh, gosh, no no no, not what I meant! So, I was folding the (fucking) laundry, a pair of Esteban’s jeans, and somehow my hair wrapped around the button on the fly and OW. What you should know here is that I was not folding his jeans in any particularly spazzy way, it’s just that my hair has gotten that goddamned long.

Almost exactly a year ago, I declared that I was going to donate my hair but I had to wait until fall so that I didn’t get scalped. Then I decided to wait until Christmas. Then it was just the right length where it didn’t do that horrible bunching thing on my neckline/shoulders and then I decided to let it go until after Weetacon so that I didn’t chance a Tuf situation. Plus, since I’m going to cut it all off anyway, I don’t have to be all gentle with the coloring anymore and could in theory get some crazy ass pink shit and have a head of cotton candy if I wanted. (It worked for Katy Perry. That bitch is a goddamned firework.)

(That song makes me cry. I hate that it’s a Katy Perry song, also. I wish Kelly Clarkson wouldn’t have turned her nose up at it. This is what I’ve chosen to believe, anyway.)

But sometime a few months ago, the hair reached critical mass. I can’t go anywhere without a ponytail holder in my pocket. It’s now so long that when I sit at my desk, it pools up in the crook of my arm. Esteban and I were lying in bed one morning and he went to lean on his elbow, not realizing that half of my hair was on the bed and ripped at least thirty hairs out of my scalp (and I could actually hear them go pop pop popopopopop! as they left this mortal coil) and yes, there were tears. Esteban has said that he dislikes it when I do the short hair thing but now he’s actually complaining “Why haven’t you cut that off yet? When exactly is that going to happen? Soon?”

The thing is, I do like having long hair. My hair is super shiny because it’s hanging very straight and sometimes it fans out across my shoulders in this perfect 70’s sitcom kind of way and it’s in those moments that I absolutely love it. And then there are other moments when I look at Anna Beth and think “Damn, that’s some cute ass hair, I tell you what” (and let’s be honest, what ISN’T cute about AB?) This isn’t even the longest that it’s ever been: in my early 20s, my hair was easily this long, plus it was in a spiral perm, so you know that if it was unwound, it would have been down to my ass. For the record, though, that was the only way I could get away with having hair that long, as when you have fine hair, every inch means a loss of body and more scalp-shaped helmet-y action. So I don’t know if I’ve just gotten more impatient with my hair or the golden memories of having non-greying hair have caused me to forget the tears and pain of having four feet of hair attached to my noggin.

Yesterday, I had somehow gotten some random sticky snarl in my hair, and then I noticed just now that I have somehow done it AGAIN and I don’t even know what the hell spooge I am dunking my hair into! It is a mystery! This is really disturbing, actually. I am almost the f-word-years-old and apparently I need to Half Pint Ingalls these locks but my god, the flyaways sticking out of braids drives me absolutely MAD. God knows that I don’t like to fuss with my hair, but half the time watching Project Runway drives me to distraction because I want so badly to take Nina Garcia off camera and give her a quick hair serum fix.

So, the appointment has been made. At least ten but more likely fifteen inches are getting cut off and shipped to become part of a wig for a kid with cancer. Now I need to find a short haircut that I like. I keep turning to Kelly Osbourne, and then again, I keep wanting some crazy-ass color hair, which my little stylist has told me is going to cause all of my head to break off until I am left with a frizz head because she’d have to treat it like a correction blah blah blah science. Then again, I remember the bold/gold fiasco (hey, eventually if I keep self-refrencing things that happened in the past, I’ll get all of my archives restored with fixed images… it could happen! Bonus for Weetaconners: the origin of Pantscakes!) and how my attempts at covering that hot tranny mess were basically an exercise in tragedy management.

This entire entry has been an exercise in the way I like my problems: first world, baby.