Today I’ve been sitting around just thinking about all the bowls of soup that have been poured since the beginning of time which of course led me to me to the subject of cutting my hair...
Yup. Gonna do it. Can’t stop me.
Now that I have actually made the decision and the appointment…
My long hair is dead to me
I don’t talk to it anymore. I don’t curse at it anymore. I have ceased trying to reason with it. And I smugly ignore its’ hairy haggling complaints about how my daily ponytail is causing breakage and ruin beyond repair.
Dead to me I say!
What choice did it leave me? Where was the cooperation when I needed it?
Hair death is never easy for anyone. Nair never did take it seriously enough.
Heartless shaver hater bastards.
Well, hair’s to closure:
Dear Dead to Me,
Thanks for …..well… for being long.
I will always remember all the
rough grabbing hair sex good times we’ve shared. It is unfortunate that we have not been able to come to an amicable agreement and that we must cut our tresses and side part ways.
I am setting my hairdresser free of the uncomfortable role of Miracle Worker that has been thrust upon her by my
begging and crying request. She can no longer be weighed down by your needy long strand demands.
Shearly, you understand that treatment at this point is out of the question. We’ve come to far down the Miss Clairol path to fool ourselves any longer.
So in keeping with my newfound dignity and determination… I’ve decided to get a boob job.
They will be far easier to maintain in the years to come and will give
my porn loving husband me great pleasure. After all, who will give a crap about my hair when I have a great set of cans?
It is my great hope that you will not ask my nipples to sprout hair in retaliation.
You are bigger than that. Or at least you used to be back in the eighties.
Somebody Stop Me
a.k.a. voice #77