“I’m growing mine out,” I said, running my hand through my lumpy, bumpy, and generally frumpy hair.
My mom and I were sitting on my couch, post Chinese and pre-Amazon, and she was talking about she was glad we were shopping early so she could go home and dye her hair.
She winced at me and nodded her head. “I figured that when I saw you on Thanksgiving.” She kind of nodded her head in a way that was somewhere between sympathetic and shaming.
Darling Ones, my hair is not good. It’s so laughably bad I kind of love it and at the same time feel the need to apologize to everyone who looks at me about the badness. When I shaved it all off in April and stayed bald through September, I knew I’d come to this point of awkward awfulness. What I didn’t quite expect is that it would be so hilarious. Like there’s literally nothing I can do about it. Even fresh from the shower it’s a weird mass of flatlands and sticky-outty cowlicks. It changes shape on a minute by minute basis. I let it dry in whatever configuration it feels like and live with it.