Rapunzel, Rapunzel…

Having waist-length hair is not exactly something I planned for myself. I had a lot of experimentation with my hair. I even tried a guy’s haircut during college. I went for red-orange hair, once. Someone actually called me a parrot, but heck, I was a risk-taker and I did not give a damn. I still don’t, by the way.

Months ago, it was understood that I had to grow it longer than usual (at least 2 or 3 inches from the shoulder, according to my fashionable friends) for the bridal styling issues.

Now, it has come to this. Sometimes, I don’t get to brush my crowning glory because I am so absorbed with work. Still, it has its good photo-worthy days:

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My hair now has a life of its own. It frequently ties itself up in a knot of strands and decides to murder my look on bad hair days. It is the topmost pollutant of the floor when I take a bath. This morning, when I went to church, it decided to shed a considerable volume on the marble floor. (I felt like a poodle undergoing some phase. God bless the janitor tonight.) The hair is as moody as the owner, I must say.

I love and hate my long hair, but I have become mightily attached to it. If I may add, I am irrationally attached to it because I am actually spending a chunk of my income in maintaining it.

Some girls have their shoes and their clothes and their travel exploits. I have my hair, my skin, my book collection, and my computer stash of nerdy things. My nails can die anytime it wants and I’d probably just buy closed shoes to cover it forever. But my hair is a different story. My last salon trip had so much extra charges to the service because it was much, much longer than their price list’s definition of long hair. Three weeks later, I just generously slathered my hair with virgin coconut oil on schedule and it did a way better and more sustainable job than the too-quick salon fix. I do both, still, because I cannot hack my way through a good and even coloring job.

I am writing so many heavy duty mental things lately so I am just posting this thing about my hair because it’s a light topic, it’s something I genuinely enjoy thinking about, and it reminds me to take a break or take it easy.

It does not make me dumb to want long and shiny tresses, and allot a space in my blogging playground for it. It only makes me… a girl with hair issues. HAHAHA.

When I air-dry my hair every time I wash it, I use the time to shut down my brain and think about feathery, hollow ,and empty things with a slice of existentialism. It’s more of a regrouping strategy so I won’t go insane with the massive things I am juggling right now.

I guess it can also double as emergency rope good for a one-storey drop when the length reaches my legs. 😀 Teehee.

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