My long hair had been driving me nuts for ages now. It strangled me as I slept. It got so tangled I hated to comb it. It shed everywhere wreaking havoc on our vacuum. As I told my stylist to cut it off, I could tell she was trying to assess how emotionally difficult it would be for me to part with the locks I had been growing forever. I assured her I was fine with getting rid of it all and indeed, I was.
The horror set in later.
Not about my new cut, it’s fine. It’s that clump of hair that she cut. I kept it so I could mail it to Locks of Love. I haven’t gotten around to mailing it yet so it’s just lying around. It’s surprisingly unsettling to walk into my bedroom and catch a ponytail hanging out on my dresser. It’s just so out of place. Sitting there…so unattached to a head. I imagine it feels like Andy’s toys, unceremoniously discarded when the owner has lost use for them. My poor ponytail. You served me well. Take heart – I promise you’ll get your second lease on life as soon as I mail you off.
But beyond that thought is this.
THAT PONYTAIL LOOKS BROWN!
Let me say that again. Brown. BROWN. Go ahead. Scroll back up to see it again. Does it look brown to you? Do I in fact have brown hair? I’ve always thought I was blonde. Am I? I can’t tell anymore. That darn ponytail has found a way to exact its revenge on me making me question everything I thought I knew about how I look.
Help. My birthday’s coming up. If I need to renew my driver’s license I’ll have no idea how to answer that hair color question.