I Have a Hairy Ass

Or, not quite, but it's getting there.

In other words, my hair is really fucking long. Wait, let me show you a picture.

Hang on. (It's kind of cool how you won't be hanging on for long because by the time I post this, with picture, you'll see it all instantaneous-like. Nifty how that works.)




So, yeah. It's long. And Zube Boy wants me to cut it.

So does my Mom.

So does Hoot.

My Belle doesn't. Well, she thinks I should get a trim. I happen to agree, but I'm struggling with whether to JUST get it trimmed or get it totally cut.

I haven't asked my Dad, but I'm willing to bet he'll say not to get it cut. He likes long hair.

I think I've maxed out Bro with the girly talk back in the miscarriage days. I've lamented the state of my uterus to him, and he was a good sport about it. I don't want to push it.

Here's the deal. I'm ATTACHED to my hair. Like, really attached. And have been for a while. As it's been to me. I mean, I'm willing to bet that there is incriminating evidence in my split ends somewhere. And we all know how long ago those days were for me. Well, maybe we don't, but I do.

Sometimes I find hair that's gotten tangled in the errant threads of my underpants, because who the hell has the money to be buying new underwear these days? And that hair belongs on the BATHROOM SHOWER WALLS, NOT in the intricacies of my unmentionables, donchya know.

It's a hairy situation, I tell ya. And I'm remiss to make up my mind. So I prolly won't. Not anytime soon, anyway.