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Life & Style

A LETTER TO YOU, FROM THE HAIR ON YOUR HEAD

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Dear Owner,

As you’re well aware when you were born we came out red.  Not the super gingery red you’d see on freckled baby faces but a deep auburny kind of red that apparently came from your Italian side.  We were proud of our color.  We got a lot of attention and were always told it could never come out of a bottle.  We weren’t sure what that meant but sensed it was good because squeezing out of a bottle sounded pretty painful.  We loved it when you would let us fly around in the wind.  We were curly and unruly and hated that torture device everyone called a brush.  Sometimes your big person would come around and strap us down into intricate mazes then tie us up with string.  Luckily you’d set us free within the hour and we’d feel like ourselves again.  When you got older you stopped brushing us altogether and we were more than okay with that.  You turned 25 and we were in our prime – lush and shiny and curled in perfect proportions.  Remember when you thought “curly” wasn’t “cool” so you’d use that medieval heat stick to get us to fit in with your friends?  We’d obey you for a bit but eventually got our way because nobody puts baby in the corner like that.

Then your belly started to grow and we started multiplying out of control.  I don’t know what you ate that day but whatever it was made us never want to let go.  We were thicker than a snicker.  You didn’t bother tying us up anymore unless you happened to be leaning over a toilet.  We appreciated that.  But then whatever was in your belly came out and we started losing friends.  We would see you grab at them in the shower and then throw them at the wall with a disgusted look on your face.  Why were you so angry?  Couldn’t you see they were just trying to cling on for dear life?  No one wants to go down like that.  You didn’t even love them enough to provide a proper buriel.  The least you could have done was put those clumps into a bag so we could visit from time to time.  But no, down the drain they went for months just like your lunch.  That was really depressing for us.  We tried getting over it but then you went and cut a bitch.  You severed our ends right off.  We certainly didn’t mind being tugged on a bit by a tiny human finger but I guess that’s the kind of thing that makes you go crazy.  You should probably seek help for that.  Not only did you take away our identity that fateful day but we lost a playmate to boot.  And for what? A cool breeze on the back of your neck?  Well we hope it was worth it. Because now we’re pissed. And now it’s our turn.  Maybe you’ve noticed us getting greasy in the front while hosting a brittle party in the back. Maybe you’ve noticed we like to snap off at the root above your forehead and come back to life as a short white haystack.  How’ve you been liking that extra helping of split ends? Like how our signature oil spills made you go from washing us four times a week to washing us everyday? Sop it up, sister.  When you’re done we’ll serve up a drought so dry a vat of Moroccan Oil won’t help your cause.  Oh and you can stop spending money on those expensive products now – we called ahead and secured a non-working arrangement.  So you probably want to know what the future holds for us, right?  Snort. Don’t you wish.  Know this much – even though we’re getting older, we’ve still got a lot of tricks up our shafts.  (Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow anyone?)

Signed Yours Truly,

The Hair On Your Head

roedhaaret_schmidt_z

-MIM-

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