Hair

I’ve got a head with hair. Long, beautiful hair…

And I love it.

I really do.

Except when I have to clean house.  If you have long hair, you know exactly what I mean.

I love long hair.  It gives me something to play with when I feel fidgety.  I can style it in so many different ways to achieve different looks (though I seem to favour the bun most days …), and there’s something rather cool about the wind blowing through my hair.  It behaves predictably for the most part and doesn’t require too much work to look good so I can’t really complain.

But when I have to clean house, I curse every single one of those “dead” cells that dare to pop out of my scalp. And I mean literally pop out.

Every. Single. One.

It makes absolutely NO sense to me how I can shed so much and still somehow maintain the thick mane that I do.  You’d think that, with all the hair I find on the floor, in the rug, in the shower drain, in the dryer, on the sink and in my clothes, I’d be bald.

Which, come to think of it, would be rather fun, I think.

But still, it makes absolutely NO sense to me.  There must be strands certain strands of hair that grow at speeds that break the sound barrier; I have no other way of explaining it. 

Come to think of it, though, I suppose if that were the case, there would be sonic booms going off constantly … and I would probably be deaf.

I once snaked a clogged drain, and you wouldn’t believe how much hair came out of there.  And how much better the tub emptied afterwards.  I very quickly learned the value of drain covers.

Another time, I decided to figure out why my vacuum cleaner wasn’t  … sucking (or it was, depending on how you define that word… that noise you just heard was my brain exploding).  Turns out that my hair was getting wound around the spinning brush thing. I had to take the vacuum apart and cut the hair off.  And then it didn’t suck anymore… (or sucked better than it did before? My brain just exploded again).

On a slight tangent, I am rather proud that I’m the one who did the drain snaking and the taking apart of the vacuum cleaner, not to mention the putting it back together.

For a one-celled (and dead) organism, hair sure is sneaky.  I always seem to have one piece that somehow manages to snake its way into my shirt and then poke through somewhere under my left arm.  It’s as if they have some sort of conspiracy going on. And if I’m wearing a t-shirt, that annoying strand will tickle me. Because it’s only one strand, it’s a little harder to see, so I keep thinking I’m imagining things.

Let me tell you, there’s something quite satisfying (not to mention, relieving) when I manage to find the culprit and dispose of it.

My hair. It’s pretty cool. Except when it isn’t.