I’ll bet you (Becky) thought I’d forgotten about answering those blog-o-versary questions. If so, you’re only partially correct. I’ve been preoccupied with my new clinical rotation and with redesigning bekahcubed and with fixing my hair each and every morning.
At the beginning of March, I wrote in my journal (yes, I keep a paper one as well):
Sometimes hair’s more trouble than it’s worth.
Every couple of uses or so, my vacuum stops working–and I have to perform an emergency operation to remove the hair that’s wound around the beater.
If I don’t catch it quickly enough, I’ll end up with the problem I had yesterday–arriving at work to discover that my hem had electrostatically attracted the excess hair from my floors at home–and that said hairs were refusing to let go.
It’s bad enough that I have to clean my bathtub drain after every use–but today I stuck my hand in the slow-draining kitchen disposal–and discovered a wad of hair.
I’ve got hair so long that when my stomach lurches at the entrance of a lost hair into its caverns, I still have enough left hanging out of my mouth to pull the whole strand out.
I’ve got hair long enough I can wind it around my knuckles to use as dental floss–24″ regulation–and still have more to spare.
I envy the olden days ladies who figured out how to straighten their fallen hairs and use them to make something useful. I’m thinking I could braid a few clumps to use as a belt–or maybe I could make my own line of wigs. Even better, I could unwind the vacuum-spun hanks and market them as an indestructible yarn. Likewise, the mats of drain stoppers could be billed as naturally-felted coasters.
The possibilities are limitless–really–the list longer than my hair. But until I’ve started up my single-woman hair business, I think it’s almost more trouble than it’s worth.
Which begs Becky’s question: “Why is your hair long?” (Or the less kindly put, “If it causes you so much trouble, why on earth do you keep it long?)
Good question.
One, I don’t really mind it that much. I like it as long as it stays on my head–it’s just the limitless strands that shed everywhere that bother me.
Second, I sort of made a vow.
Okay, there’s no “sorta” about it.
As a incredibly romantically minded fourteen year old, I decided that my hair would belong to my husband. I haven’t cut it since.
I’ve made some discoveries throughout my long-haired journey. 1) I’ve discovered that this is as long as my hair gets. 2) I’ve discovered that long hair often evokes the question “What religion are you?” 3) I’ve discovered that long-haired individuals CANNOT take chances when it comes to cooking with an uncovered head. (Face it, it’s pretty easy to figure out whose hair is in the food if said hair is two feet long.) 4) I’ve discovered that I go through shampoo quite a bit faster than my short-haired peers.
But I still look at my hair in the shadows I cast on the pavement walking and think “Man, if only I had that gorgeous of hair in real life.” And I still look behind me to see who someone’s talking to when they comment about long hair. And I still gasp a bit when I pull out a hair, just for curiosity sake and hold it up to a yardstick. Twenty-six inches. It sure doesn’t feel that long. But I like it. So I keep it.
A little schoolgirl romance, a little longing for the eighteen-hundreds, a little (penny-wise, pound foolish) laziness thrown in, and I’ve got long hair.
