Last night was the night that people touched my hair. It seems that this happens every time I get to know a new group of people socially. At some point, some one asks to touch my hair, and then everyone wants to touch my hair. I had pizza with the workshop participants last night, and toward the end, Linda asked if she could touch my hair. I obliged and got couple of odd looks, then there was another hand on my head.
Other people love my hair, and often ask if I love it to. I usually give my standard line about it not working out so well when I was a kid -teeny little head and great big hair- but liking it as an adult. No one needs my half hour lecture on how living with curly hair is like having a bipolar muppet sitting atop my head at all times: there’s no telling what I’m going to get from day to day and god help me if I disturb the routine in any way. Will today be glorious and shiny, or disorganized and fuzzy? Well-behaved, or strung out? Who knows? And if I don’t have my regular shower and gel routine, forget it, the day is ruined. This is something generally that is understood only by other curly-haired people. And, apparently workshop leader Ryan, who described his hair as being the reincarnation of some entirely separate being that is trying to communicate with the world, and that time lapse photography over the course of the day would probably show his hair spelling out some message. I am inclined to try that with my own head. Years ago, a co-worker informed my that me hair “grew” during the day, and he could tell time by looking at my head. Ouch. I would like to think I have refined my style since then.
In other hair news, I have received word of exceptionally long leg hair sightings from two other workshop participants. It was suggested that I start a support group. I’m thinking about a hotline. I wonder if 800-LEG-HAIR is taken.
