A Year with No Haircuts

For some reason that I’m no longer quite sure of, I recently made the decision to grow out my hair; which, considering I’ve kept it relatively short until now – never let it grow over my shoulders, really – is quite a big deal. After about seven years of choppy hair, and giving the choppy hair the chop whenever it becomes even vaguely longish, it’s probably time I tried something different.

Therefore, I’ve decided to go an entire year without a haircut. For someone who’s used to a total follicular revamp every three or four months, a year with the same choppy and ridiculous mess is going to drive me seven shades of crazy. Alas, no haircuts at all is the only way I’ll ever be able to grow out this godforsaken mop on top of my head; because if I find myself within spitting distance of hairdresser’s scissors, I’ll just tell them to shave me like an alpaca in winter, and that would sort of defeat the main objective.

It’s been two months so far – less, actually – since I made the decision, and already it’s making me crazier than a squirrel-rat after a week’s floating down the Niger delta in pickle-jar. I just don’t know what to do with myself or it. Boyfriend also claims that his hair’s awesomeness comes from the fact that he doesn’t put anything on it, so I’m also trying to avoid products and styling – because, dammit, it’s wrong that my boyfriend has better hair than I do. So now, we have hair that’s more unmanageable than a sugar-addled toddler and a determination not to use styling products; the ultimate recipe for driving Ke insane.

Mostly  I just need to rant about it lot so that I can forget about actually doing something to it – like hacking all of it off in a fit of impulsive IDON’TGIVEAFUCKANYMORE and try to remember that it’ll probably look quite cool once it’s a bit longer – also, that once it’s longer, I’ll be able to put the dreads in that I’ve wanted since I turned sixteen.