Longtime readers already know this, but I am growing my hair out.
Not to donate—that would be a good reason—but just to see if I can do it. Because I don’t have enough impossible long-term goals, apparently.
It’s slow going because taking care of long hair is a pain in the ass and I don’t know how I never realized that before. Basically, anything below my shoulders must be treated as a completely separate entity from the rest of my hair, and I’m constantly doing weird shit to it. Last night I slept with melted coconut oil soaking into it (don’t worry, I used a shower cap and put a towel over my pillow). Shit is getting real up in here, is my point.
Husband has been observing all of this with self-preserving silence, if a bit of side-eye.
Which is good. It means he’s learned not to look directly at anything, lest he accidentally see it.
ME: (coming into his office) Hey.
HIM: (turns) Hey.
ME: Are you looking at my hair?
HIM: … No?
ME: You just craned your neck like you were looking at my hair.
HIM: You just came in. I was stretching my back and turning to look at you.
ME: At my hair.
HIM: No… just facing you, in case you came in here to say something.
ME: Well maybe I did.
ME: I’m going downstairs. (storms out)
HIM: (calling after me) Don’t know why you came in here, the elevator’s out of order!
Offspring, I’m afraid, has no such instinct.
OFFSPRING: What the hell was in this bowl?
ME: (glancing) Coconut oil.
OFFSPRING: Why didn’t it harden back up?
ME: Probably because my hair’s been in it.
OFFSPRING: That’s… I’m not cleaning that.
ME: (rinsing bowl) Oh my god, don’t be such a baby!
OFFSPRING: And why did we buy mayo?*
ME: Because it’s not for food.
OFFSPRING: … What?
ME: It’s for my hair.
ME: Who do you think picked it out for me?
OFFSPRING: Did he know you were going to use it on your hair?
ME: Of course. That’s why he got the kind in the squeeze bottle.
* A fair question, actually; we never eat the stuff, so on the rare occasion we need it, we make it (which tastes better anyway).