It seems these humorous kind of posts have fast become a favourite of mine to write. Whether it’s because I like to pretend I’m funny and have the ability to treat everyday problems with contempt or just because I enjoy switching my serious talk up once in a while. I realise it’s probably been done a million times before but I like to put my own twist on things. Albeit I’m not quite buzzfeed or cosmopolitan but I do approach unarmed of insults (or at least I try).
For as long as I can remember, my hair has been uncontrollably long. The first year of my life was spent sporting the bald look but from the age of 3 my locks reached down my back and have failed to formulate a stop sign ever since. I’ve had many hair styles, cuts and colours over the years but my hair always seems to catch up with me in a way I just can’t ignore. It must be something in the genes, but that’s probably just my tangled hair…
The amount of products you use or have used being entirely uncountable. Every room in the house turns into a science experiment as you try to find a balance between the occurring issues in long hair. Too dry, too soft, too flat, too thick, too oily, too much to handle; you name it, we’ve got it. You’ve just gotta accept it’s impossible to maintain a luxurious mane and rejoice when you discover that one miracle.
You think placing your hair into a bun is a two minute job on a Monday morning? Oh no, not for us long haired mammals. It takes two minutes just to find a good enough brush to grasp the bunch of hair and manoeuvre it backwards, and then when you eventually manage to at least place the bundle on top of your head, there’s just too much hair for it to appear attractive. It either represents the habitat of a small reclusive animal or falls floppy as soon as the chore is done.
Your hair gets stuck in everything. And I mean absolutely EVERYTHING. If your choice is to dedicate the time and effort to perfecting your loosened hair, there’s just zero possibility of you going about your daily activities without suffering the pain of trapped strands turned chunks, or of keeping it in tact. Carry your bag on your shoulder? Your hair will become wrapped around it and near enough tear your head off. Open the car door? Your hair is bound to backtrack and get fast. Think you’ll have a day free of tugging your hair out of your scarves and collars and bottle tops? Pfft, who are you kidding. Oh, winter how I can’t wait for you to arrive and cause much more hair misery.
Accessories and beauty products are off limits if you want to at least be approachable. No one likes a passer by in a head to head war with sunglasses that you wrongly decided to rest on your scalp or a section of hair covered in sticky lip product because your long locks and your gloss just aren’t a match made in heaven.
You can’t enjoy nature without feeling the wrath – especially if you live in Britain where we experience all four seasons in just one hour. As you stroll past the tranquil trees soaking in the views, you are setback by being caught up with the branches; as you indulge in the sunshine you can’t prevent the sweaty birds nest accumulating quickly and if it’s windy, you may as well just audition for the part of the next horror movie girl.
People just always seem to believe they’re one up on the knowledge of your own hair. If I had a pound for every time I heard “you have so much hair” I’d be able to hold a broadcasting show informing everyone that I know damn well I do because it’s on my head and I can feel it slowly draining all my upright energy as I speak.
Your barnet almost becomes a hidden enclosure and a trap for all mankind. If it’s not the hundreds of forgotten bobby pins you discover are making themselves at home, it could be an estranged pen or a piece of jewellery dangling in your hair without you even being remotely aware.
With long hair comes that one trusty sidekick. Almost like a best friend and a partner in crime apart from the fact you can’t rely on them to dig you out of the ground or phone them up for a long chat. The perfect hair tool is an elusive rarity and once you find it you hold on to it with sentimental value. That’s until it lets you down of course, that one certain comb vanishing and leaving you in the lurch, or that worn down hair tie finally giving up on you and snapping with tears to follow.
Your hair is in the way, like constantly in the way at every turn of your head and it can become seriously frustrating, if not amusing. You can wash your hair in the morning and by mid afternoon you’ve had a toothpaste bath as you lean over the sink, a lunch with a gravy dipped hair makeover, oh and if you think you’re able to complete your skincare routine without embedding some crusty face mask segments in the unprotected hair then you thought wrong.
Your head is always 10000 degrees, and that isn’t even an exaggeration. There’s that much hair bombarding your space to head breathe that you wonder how it stays healthy. As much as you appreciate the warmer weather, it’s not that great for a long hair owner because you’re unable to find a suitable position for your entangled mess. Good job there’s an option for a hat, ey?
The shredding. Oh the extreme moulting. The complaints as you block every sink in the house with your fallen hair and the job of unclogging the rancid aftermath gathered in the plug. I sometimes wonder how I even have any hair left with the amount that is ragged out as I forcefully brush through. It seems with just the journey of bed to bath you’d be able to make a wig and send it off to those who aren’t so fortunate (or are, you decide).
The trip to the hairdressers as you compose yourself for the inevitable cooing and questioning to follow. You’ll be familiar with comments like “some salons would charge double for this amount of hair”, “but it’s so beautiful”, “I’m so jealous”, ” I wish I had hair like yours”, “it’s soooo long”, “make sure you drown it in conditioner” as you sit there internally screaming out to escape from this chair and this small talk. But oh no, wait, you still have another four hours to go. May as well grab some more trashy magazines and set yourself a bed for the night.
It takes forever to dry, almost a decade if your waiting hours are anything to go by. Even when you set yourself enough time to shower and get ready, if no heat is used then you’re guaranteed to leave the house with half your head still wet and unshapely. Probably best to whip out that hairdryer whilst you have the opportunity.
The outfit issues. Is there really any point in planning the frontal details of your exposed neckline when your hair is only going to be draped over, anyway? If there’s a patterned dress you want to show off then you best reconsider your tactics because all that hair is gonna cover the main part completely but forget tying your hair up and out of the way because it just doesn’t look right in the hair to garment ratio ARGH.
Exercising is impossible without suffocating. It’s bad enough recognising your unfit skills and contriving a way to hold down your boobs but add long hair into the mix and you’re setting yourself up for failure. You can guarantee half of your routine is spent securing your bobble as it slips down and unravels a knotted nightmare.
Sleeping is also impossible without suffocating. You have to find some way to sweep it out of the way of your face because you may just have a morning wake up call with a face full of hair, a red face, and a fearful unprecedented near death moment.
Styling your hair takes so long and tires your poor arms so much that you may as well consider it your cardio for the day. It’s not a matter of creating a quick schedule, you honestly have to scribble that shit into your diary. My hairstyle decisions are based solely on the amount of time I have to spare. If it’s a night out on a whim then curling or straightening is out of the question. Accomplishing that au natural ‘I just woke up like this’ look kind of loses its edge when it takes a good few hours.
Finding a towel big enough for your hair is impossible. Seriously, you need a bath sheet wrapped around to ensure there’s no unbounded segments left to form into a frizz ball. Staying over anywhere, whether it be at a hotel or your friends’ house, is just not formidable if the correct equipment is not provided.
School life was a terrorising period. If you remember the battle between having your hair down and the plastic chairs with the slight crack in them then you’re a pro. And chewing gum, god forbid if you ever had that to contend with. You can wave goodbye to your hair and hello to the scissors.
It’s damn expensive. Not only do you have to consider getting a bank loan to head to the hairdressers and give them instructions on the celebrity pinterest ideas you’ve seen, the additional extras put you out of pocket on a weekly basis. Stocking up on the shampoo, conditioner, serum and whatever else you need to rely on somehow seem to rob you shamelessly.
If you class yourself as an insect hater, then that intensity is only going to be tripled if you are blessed with long locks. The hair balls that somehow form together in a twisty loop to fall on to the floor scare the living daylights out of you as you think a spider has invaded. It’s even worse if your eyesight is terrible and you have no glasses on or contacts in *ahem* me *ahem*. Talk about embarrassing.
The same goes for that phantom bite sending you into a panicking frenzy as you look down to the crawling of the skin that turns out just to be another shed hair. Becoming frightened of your own hair; yep, totally normal.
Following hair tutorials seems easy enough when you have ten YouTube tabs open and the vlogger makes it seem like a walk in the park but once you start on your hair (which obviously is ten times the length) then you begin to realise it was a bad idea. After you’re unable to hold on to each end, your arms slowly collapse and then you realise you missed a section, you give it up with a huffed response.
Apologising to someone for the mishaps of your hair also becomes normal procedure. If you hand them something over and your hair is hanging as a supplementary accessory, if they ask for a brush and the only one you have is your dependable one you’ve had for yours with all your matted hair still immersed, or if you’re sending over a parcel and as you sellotape it together your hair gets caught ripping another few strands into the mix causing a lovely brown paper to blonde hair combination. Oh, the list is endless.
No matter how much you complain about it, how much you debate with yourself and how much you consider taking the brave step to get the chop, you just can’t go ahead and instead continue explaining the reason behind your wise decision. In the end, the fear of regret overtakes your urge of impulse and truthfully, it’s so worth it to feel like a bad ass princess.
Can you relate?