Justine here. A little slow jam for the ladeeeez….. aw yeeah.
Shortly after moving to Houston I noticed that I was having extreme difficulty in combing my hair. I’m not talking about a little snarl here people– I’m talking about full-on rasta mini-dreadlocks at the back of my head. I’m talking about trying to comb my hair with a wide-tooth comb and about a half-cup of detangler and still managing to get the comb stuck. Effing warfare! In my own bathroom! It’s the water–I travel anywhere else and my hair is fine. Here, fugeddaboutit.
So I declare the mini-dreads the victor, and to the victor goes the spoils of war. I may have once sacrificed the inherent dignity and moral worth of my facial epidermis on the Altar of Undead Beauooooteee, but dammit I have limits. A couple of months ago I realized that my hair was doing me no damn good whatsoever and was in fact causing me significant emotional distress at the prospect of combing it out after showering. Therefore, I decided that my hair and I should part company.
Curiously, I felt no grief.
I’m donating my hair to Locks of Love.
Should go down this weekend some time. I will post pics assuming that I don’t come out of this looking like I went through a hedge backwards. I figure it can’t possibly be any worse than the last time I went to the beauty parlor, right? Right?
- Justine
