Every few years, I chop off most of my hair and donate it to make wigs for kids who have cancer (locksoflove.org for those of you thinking this is a good idea, which it is!). I then start growing it out again. And every few years, there comes a time when I snap a brush in half while dealing with my hair. I have a long-standing hate with my hair. It grows really fast, fairly straight (except more curly rencently), and is monster thick. There is always the day that the thickness of my hair times the length is enough to snap a regular brush, and it always happens when my hair is just below shoulder length.
It actually doesn't hurt, since I and my hair have epic fights every morning and all nerves in my scalp seem immune to pain, but untangling half of a brush from a forest of hair is eight kinds of annoying and involves a minimum of six different swear words.
Anyway, I have reached that length and lost a good brush in a mighty battle. Luckily, I know my hair and had a replacement brush ready. As I muttered malevolently about my hair, my mom suggested I chop it all off again. I've got about three inches to go before I can donate. This means I'll be "pretty" for my graduate recital before chopping it all off to start the cycle again. Hair. Bah.
An Erinku:
I suspect
loads of laundry
to be gremlin-powered
(doubling in number in the night)
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