Hair!

Though I've dedicated this blog to books, manga, etc, I don't believe that my personal life is too out of the ball park. Sure, my life isn't as exciting or memorable as the stories in all the mangas and novels, but it does get a little out of hand sometimes.

So, I'm going to tell a little story - about my hair.

My hair is very thick, as thickness goes. I cut it last year, and it grows quite slowly, so I'm pretty uptight about not cutting it until I have another one of those fantasies in which I am riding on the back of a speeding motorcycle and my short, sexy hair is fluttering in the wind.

Right now, it's probably four or five inches past my shoulder, and I'm ok with it. But at one point less than a month ago, I was definitely not ok with it.

I'd just washed my hair - perhaps half an hour ago, and it was pretty much dry. I was one of those people who doesn't brush their hair until they remember to brush it (as opposed to out of habit), and so when I stepped into the washroom to comb it through, I intended to be quick about it.

I had one of those heavy-duty (if that even applies to brushes), curling brushes. The big, round ones - with tiny spikes.

---

I was at the left side of my head when the brush got stuck. I'm not going to go into detail regarding how I got it stuck, because I'm not so sure myself, but I probably didn't comb it through before lifting it out and up to repeat the procedure.

So the brush got stuck - really close to my head. At first I was completely calm and professional (and by that I mean I wasn't screaming or anything). I tried untangling it - I really did. I simply got myself in a bigger mess. There was no one I could go to, for I lived alone at the time.

Ten minutes later, I was still by myself, stalking the bathroom, and trying the yank the thing out of my hair. You can totally see how that would go downhill, as opposed to actually being somewhat productive. It hurt too. If I took my hand away, the brush stayed there. It looked like a humongous lump on the side of my head - while pulling all my hair out.

At that time, I named it "the monster", because it was eating up my energy, my patience, my intelligence (as I thought about all the possible ways of dealing with this monstrosity)... and my hair.

Next step - I tried washing it. Goodness gracious, let's not go down that road. I stood right outside the bath tub, put only my head in, and turned on the showerhead. I'm cringing as I write, because that was such a wrong move. My hair was now wet. And tangled. Overall, in worse shape than before.

I brought out the hair dryer and started blowing.

I admit, I'd changed a couple of levels from being "calm" into "panicky". Not only did the whole bathroom floor get soaked with water, I had a consistent flow of healthy images in which my hairdryer (plugged into the wall right beside me) starts fizzing up and electrocutes me.

But I survive that part. Half an hour later, my arm very tired from holding the thing up, I'd tried nearly everything except the one thing I didn't want to do. And so, I walked around the house, looking for other inspirational ideas to fight "the monster".

During my psychoanalysis, I took notice of the spikes of the brush. They were the "teeth" that wouldn't let go of my hair. Suppose, I thought to myself, I cut off all the spikes of the brush. Would that work?

---

I put on a face of bravery towards the daunting task before me. There were probably a hundred or so of those spikes. I finally took out a pair of scissors, with absolute conviction that it wasn't going anywhere near my hair (like that was possible), and it was only going to cut the spikes off of the brush.

---

Looking back, if those spikes were made of rubber or something, I might have actually succeeded. But they were something close to iron. Scissors, obviously, did not work against them.

And so, as I sat beside the sink in my bathroom... the tears started coming on. I am so embarassed to admit this, but I guess it adds to the story. If I'd known what was waiting in store for me an hour earlier when I walked into the bathroom, I'd probably not touch my hair for two weeks.

There I was, bawling my eyes out, questioning the great Heavens why I was being treated so horribly; shadowed by what could only be bad luck.

Soaked in self-pity, I took out the pliers. One by one, I started wiggling each of the "tooth" out of "the monster".

Can you imagine me? Sitting on the bathroom counter, tears streaming down my face, a humongous lump on the side of my head, a pair of pliers tugging out bits of iron...

---

How on earth did I manage to get myself into this situation?

---

As I continued my ill-fated journey, I came to a certain self-acceptance.

Simply put, I accepted what had befallen me, and was prepared to deal with the consequences.

Ok. Change that last sentence into:

Screw this BS. I was sick and tired of having dangerous instruments with me alone in the washroom, weeping with hatred. If I was going down that road in the first place, I'd have a razor in my hand, not pliers.

Next thing I knew, I'd snatched my pair of scissors to start chopping away at my hair. It only took one minute (or less), and the brush was out. As well as a whole bunch of hair.

I looked into the mirror. I'd officially labeled myself as a freak... as if I wasn't a freak in the first place for going through all that drama and ending up with the same result. I cut bangs for myself too.

So now? I have half a small muchroom cut on the left side of my head, uneven bangs, and significantly less hair (which isn't too bad of a thing).

But I'm not a pessimist. With a clip and some hopeful wishing that the people around me are blind, I function as well as I used to.

Well... that was just one of those defining moments of my life. I have a couple more, but I guess I'll save them for later.

Hopefully you enjoyed a few chuckles at my expense,
- Annie