the less pretty one
I’ve been trying to let my hair grow. Right now it’s at the same length it was at two months ago when I freaked out and cut it off again. This time I think I can go farther, like someone slowly sinking into a hottub. Hot tub. Hotub.
It always grows forward, all the way from the very back of the crown. It hardly wants to stay behind my ears without making funky, stringy gelled little sideburns. If I pin it back with tiny leopard clips, I look like a retarded housewife instead of a spunky cute raver girl.
The other day I tried to do something new. Let the texturized chunks fall flat over my ears, some fringes carefully curling toward my face. “This looks nice,” I said to my bathroom mirror.
At my work’s bathroom mirror an hour later, I looked just like Janet from Three’s Company.
If I can just hold out until it’s shoulder length, everything will be good. I only have about eighteen months to go.
