Friday, 4 September 2015

Lovely locks?

Hair. We all have it. Some love theirs, some don't. Some just plain don't know what to do with it, like me!

Having always been a tomboy, from the age of around 5, my hair as a kid was always short. Easy peasy, brush and go. Some of my friends would sit with their Girls' World heads, applying the make-up and styling the hair. Not my thing though. The closest I got to being "girly" was a Curly Twirl Barbie. Complete with hair curler, I gave it a go for a little while at least. It made the ends of her hair ragged. So I trimmed it, very neatly I might add (I was quite proud of myself), taking off the tiniest, tiniest amount levelling it off. I don't remember how, but I got distracted, leaving the said Barbie with her REALLY long hair and the pair of scissors on the draining board. I came back to it to find the synthetic hair strewn ALL over the draining board, my Barbie lying on top looking like Yazz from the 80's group "Yazz and the Plastic Population". My brother had tried to "help" me. The only reason I got upset was that I thought I was going to get into trouble, besides that though, it wasn't my cup of tea so I wasn't too upset.

After I left High School I started growing it in an effort to shed my tomboy image, only occasionally getting it trimmed. My earlier years of non-girlishness had not prepared me for a lifetime of caring for my hair. I went though a phase, when it was waist length, of having it permed. However, my hair being so thick, the poor stylist had to use the skinniest rollers to make it stay put, otherwise it would just drop out overnight.

I have come to realise that I am a "brush and go" kind of gal. I am not one to faff, preen, spray, scrunch, backcomb or style in any way, shape or form.


Locks:

In 2014
my hair was so long
I could sit on it.
I wish I could say
that it was luscious
and healthy, 
it wasn't.
A thick head of hair
neglected
by a tomboy
wanting to feel more girly,
but not quite knowing how.
Never trimmed or pampered,
just washed twice,
conditioned once.
Eternally aching arms meant
I left it to its' own devices
slowly
growing.
Only brushed
and pulled back to avoid
tickling my face 
and getting in the way,
though it still did.
Constant ponytail
even at night,
again to try and stop 
a mouthful of hair.
Partway down my back
weaker strands broke
leaving split ends
and longer ones
resembling rats tails.
ENOUGH!
I finally snapped,
unable to cope
with the long ...
lank ...
locks.
I wanted to look smart
not like I was wearing
a witches wig!
Free to turn over at night
without tangling myself up
and giving myself
a crick in the neck.
So, on Remembrance Day
over two feet of hair
lay
languidly
on the cold floor
of the salon,
swept aside
as two old dears gasped
and marvelled
at my new
very 
short 
cut.
I still don't know
what to do with my hair.
So, I've started growing it ...
again!


Thanks for reading. ;-) x
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