The Hair.

Complete strangers have been awestruck by my hair. So much so that, at times (5, to be exact), they have felt compelled to touch it without my consent or approval. To you, this might seem a little strange, maybe even slightly creepy. Well, that's because it is. I'm awestruck by the height of Snooki's hair, but that doesn't mean I'd touch it if I happened to come across her in a public restroom.
At the same time, though, I have to admit: It's kind of flattering. I was born with a full head of soft, dark hair, but from there it changed and grew into tight, corkscrew style curls. For most of my life, my hair and I have had an up-down-rollercoaster of a relationship. Not neccessarily because of how it looked, but mainly because of how much it hurt. When I was a little girl, getting my hair done was always an Ordeal. A lot of crying and begging on my part, and scolding and pulling on my mother's. I'm sure she tried, but I never really felt as though she was very gentle about it, and my whining definitely didn't help her mood.
In addition to having a lot of it, my hair is constantly tangled, especially in the back, where it grows the thickest. Because of this, for most of my childhood, my hair was almost always in braids of some kind, and the Combing and Crying ritual happened almost everyday. As I grew older, my hair style evolved from cute little girl braids to just being super short. Not a good look for a girl with cheeks as fat as that one kid from Goonies. It wasn't until my freshman or sophomore year of high school that I began to reconcile myself with the lot I was given. Now, I kind of like it. It's crazy and unpredictable and all over the place, but I know how it feels. I'm not the most organized or focused gal in the world, that's for sure.


We've got an understanding, my hair and I.