This is an example of my hair on a "normal" day. Give or take. Ok, I'm not blond. And I don't have seven feet of glorious, silky hair. Nor do I resemble Rapunzel, look beautifully willowy and melancholy, or even own a white dress for that matter.
Let's not be nit-picky, here.
I've got long hair that tends to be frizzy, have split ends, and occasionally behaves well enough to fool an onlooker into thinking that I have "good" hair.
Today is not one of those "good" hair days. As a matter of fact, this month has not been one of those "good" hair days.
I quit on my crazy-person "no chemicals" beauty diet. I could claim that I got poor, and couldn't afford all those fancy schmancy shampoos, which is partially true, but that doesn't excuse the fact that there were approximately fifteen hundred different ingredients already in my house that would have worked just as well, and were completely "natural." Baking soda is not beneath me.
I got greedy, and I missed the feeling of having silky, heavily coated in chemicals, fashion magazine hair. Bouncy, glossy, practically-pickled-in-perfumes hair. I wanted to smell like coconuts. And mangoes. And flowers and spring rain and a goddamn blooming tulip. I wanted to feel girly, and not like some kind of refugee, trying to run and hide from the evils of mankind, living in a box, and washing my armpits with a "warsh-rag" and dirty pond water.
Ugh. Weakness. Thy name is Vanity.
Consequently, my scalp went into full resistance. Every unsettling thing you can imagine happening to your head, ever, happened on mine all at once, short of my locks turning into snakes, and bursting into flames. Although I'm still not sure that isn't inevitable.
I'm itchy. I'm flaky. I'm greasy. When the word "skanky" was coined, it was this scalp condition they had in mind. I feel skanky. And I resemble closely a snow-covered ski slope. A hairy ski slope.
After my shower this morning, I looked like a fat, round python, desperately trying to shed its skin.
Before I resign to my fate, and go out in search of the underside of a bridge to inhabit, I'm giving civilized living one last shot, and have coated my entire head in coconut oil and cocoa butter, and have submitted to looking like Courtney Love for the rest of the day. (Since I'm also recovering from a nasty allergic reaction to mangoes, that left my lips looking all herpped out and splotchy.)
And now, a lesson in sarcasm:
I am stunning.
I am alluring and breath taking.
People have lined up outside my door, desperately wishing to bed me, and possess this impeccable specimen of womankind.
No one can resist me, for I am all that is sexual, desirable, and winsome.
Bow down, homely peons.
|I am a rare, and unique snowflake. With a greasy plastic bag|
on my head. Ya know, to catch the dripping. What? Is that weird?