Don’t worry. This isn’t a post regarding anything worldly or political or uterusy. I have my opinions on that but I think everyone else has thoroughly ear raped everyone on that already. Sorry. I really am. But puns are my weakness.
Anyway, it seems my genetic inclination was really out for me today. I mean, really it’s my own fault, I have gone 18 months and only gotten my hair cut once, but I like long hair. A) I like to have a few drinks and
yell politely express things like “long hair don’t caaaaaare!” B) it’s a hell of a lot easier than short hair with that required blow drying with a round brush and pomeade and everything else terrible. But alas, I do reach a point when I need a hair cut. Usually in the form of slamming my hair in the car door more often than not (this really is an issue seeing as I don’t have one of those fancy clickers so I have to lock my door before I get out of the car and then manually unlock the door to get my caught hair out, only after twisting into a position that can only be described as “frightened curly fry”), OR this weekend’s happenings, which involve me going to the grocery with popcorn in my hair.
Right. You would think a normal female would look in the mirror before venturing out in public. And you’re right. But this grunge queen thought yoga pants and a white tee were damn good enough. Only after I got home from buying wine and toilet paper did I discover I had not one, but two, pieces of popcorn hanging in my hair. Last time I shove this mop behind my shoulders and saunter down the road to farm fresh. And thanks for telling me, no one in the store. Or at least silently picking it out before running away. Come on!
I also noticed upon my arrival home that I had a light brown and green stain on my left boob that I can only decipher must be hummus and spinach juice from my wrap at lunch. Clearly boobs were meant to serve as a food-saving shelf. A shelf that my hair can use as a vacuum to suck up any extra crumbs to wear like a barrette. Or one of those feather extensions that was popular for a day.
So in short, we have a simple solution here. I can wear a bib and shave my head, or I can become one of those popular street characters we all come to know and love. I can see it now, walking through Carytown, posting up on the corner and displaying my hair gems for all the world to see. Crumbled chips here, a piece of gum there, perhaps a smattering of bird poo if the world is really on my side.
Of course, the real problem here isn’t really my hair, it’s that I can’t keep food in my mouth. And we’ll blame that on the drinking along with my bad decisions and taxi receipt collection.