Or maybe I just have crappy hair genes. But to have crappy hair genes as the result of a century-old curse is a lot more exciting than the plain old “she got her father’s crappy hair genes.”
A typical day in the life of my hair begins by me stumbling to the bathroom and passing the large mirror above the sink on the way to the potty. My eyes widen and I blink rapidly, trying to chase away what my sleep-hazed brain can only decipher as the lingering result of a nightmare that I don’t remember having. But, alas, this is no dream. My hair really does look like a scouring pad.
Every morning I do this and every morning it pisses me off. I grab a comb in one hand and the bulk of my hair in the other. After the first tooth of the comb breaks off while fighting a war way beyond its maturity level I usually end up throwing it against the mirror.
Occasionally the comb will ricochet back and smack me, resulting in flying hair rage but usually it bounces around the counter a few times before settling in the sink with a dull thud. I glare at the mass on my head before reaching under the sink for weapons more suitable to my hair’s caliber.
When my hair was short (and when I say short, I mean it. I once shaved my head bald in an attempt to shake this Sorceress’ curse) I didn’t have to worry about knots that boy scouts couldn’t duplicate or entire paycheck’s worth of products piled up around my bathroom. But now that it’s very long (and holds four pounds of water) it tangles easily. Plus I have to use like a half bottle of mousse to get it all.
But once the battle is over I can take a deep breath and look in the mirror without the worry that bats or the Tooth Fairy will come flying out of my hair. Now is the prime opportunity to have my photo taken as well.