[First off, an update. So far this month, $184.86 has been raised for TWLOHA via direct donations {that people have told me about} and ad revenue from your click-ins. The top referrers not coming from StumbleUpon or another social medium are currently Lou {140}, Jeremy {73}, Vancityrockgirl {29}, Jonniker {21} and Kim {16}. Thanks for your help, everyone!
If you've made a donation that you'd like to let me know about, please email me {mommyismoody at gmail, or leave a comment below the following post, which will be hilarious. To me.]
Dear Hair,
I believe the DSMH-IV has diagnosed you with Dissociative Identity Disorder. This does not surprise me, whatsoever, but I will take this opportunity to complain a little.
Being the owner of hair with special needs, I should be used to it by now – the split personality, that is. The fact that you let your own whims dictate the amount of style my ass is not working. But I just can’t cope, sometimes, hair.
I know that the introduction of Isobel set you off. Maybe it was some sort of trauma to you, that made you change from your normal shiny, stick-straightedness into this monster of frizzy, wavy, not-quite-beachy mess. Maybe I’ve otherwise abused you and now you must seek solace in this veil of identities. But enough is enough. Your dominance-seeking behaviour borders on self-masochistic, you always needing me to punish you into submission with heat.
I won’t do it. I refuse. I won’t hurt you further, hair. We need to ban together. We need to seek healing and peace within (and out). We need to get some semblance of order in order.
(Was that redundant? I apologize.)
Hair, you have pushed me to my limits. And while I do appreciate that you hold onto hair dye far past it’s prime, I don’t like that you suck up any new tint I try – light ash brown should not beget dark inky espresso, afterall. While I love the six ringlets you give me when I take the time to love you with deep conditioner, leave in, spray wax AND curl enhancer, I don’t like the straight bits you leave on the sides of my face. While I love how thick and plentiful you are, it’s a curse when I’m pulling the 8th hair of the hour out of my bra and declogging drains weekly.
Most of all, hair? I hate that I cannot manipulate like I can anything else on my body.
One thing I do love is the lie you’re helping me live. Because hair, with all of your crazy turns, poufs and kinks, it looks – from the outside – as if I have a lot of sex. We’ll just keep the no sex at all secret between you and me, okay?
Love,
The one that sighs at you so much
