| Historically I let my hair run feral. The agreement is that I don’t try to humiliate it every day and it won’t strangle me in my sleep. So I’ll go for years letting my hair grow longer and longer until I’m overwhelmed then sashay into a salon and have them hack it all off. By the way, if you tell a stylist to just cut it all off then they’ll get very uncomfortable. It will take rounds of encouragement and ensuring them you aren’t the litigious sort before they agree. And for the first three months I love my sassy new hair. It’s an adventure of buying various hair goops and no regular brushing! But I get bored; don’t want to get a re-cut, and accept that I don’t know what to do with “fibre wax”. Usually I just ignore it for another year or so and then the cycle begins again. But this time I had my grown out pixie cut “cleaned up” due to my ongoing search for unemployment. The girl gave me something called a “fractured bob” or something else that sounds like my hair should have a handicap placard. This new cut seems to require blowdrying. If I don’t then it sits on my head like a betrayed puppy. But if I use a dryer it goes berserk, also like a puppy but this time it's being attacked by a blowdryer. I don’t know how to use the damned things so I end up with a puffball. Luckily, if I brush my hair and then ignore it for a while, the puff eventually settles down for a nap and looks okay. So now all I have to do is ignore it again, but this time I’ll get a trim when Dave tells me that things are looking way too bad to leave the house. He usually lets me know when I’m not fit for public consumption and, usually, I listen to him. Do I have makeup smeared on half my face from when I took a nap? Am I dressed like a cross between a crazy Asian granny and a clown? No problem! Unless I’m really comfortable and I don’t think where we’re going warrants effort (I’m looking at you, Target and Wal-Mart!) in which case his words fall on deaf ears.
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