That was me being witty just then. You’re welcome.
Let me tell you a fun story about my hair that literally spans three and a half years. This one time I decided I was going to donate my luscious locks because people in this world just need wigs made out of my hair. They just do. So I started to grow it out and grow it out and grow it out.
There came a point when I realized long hair, one length, sans hair product, style, or color was not really attractive, but I was doing it in the name of disease, and I forged on ahead. [Also, in all seriousness, I’ve watched too many family and friends suffer from cancer, and I felt, at the time, as though it was the only thing I could do that would make a difference. It still doesn’t feel like enough.]
But then I decided to get married. And we hit this brick wall of: do we keep the hair or do we whack it. Because, you know, I didn’t look good. And there’s this thing about looking good on your wedding day. As it turned out, my hair was the exact length it needed to be for Pantene Pro-V’s Beautiful Lengths program, and so, two weeks before I married Husband, I cut eight inches off.
Husband’s family was dismayed because they’d never known me short-haired. Fact: I am a short-hair girl. Have been my entire life. There were two points, up to that juncture, during which I had long hair: fourth grade just … because, I guess, and pre-wedding. It might happen again, who’s to say, but I get antsy and prefer it short anyhow.
But this isn’t about my preferences. This is about The Hair.
So it was separated into several little ponytails. It was cut. It was bagged up. And then … it just kind of sat in my house for awhile. I brought it to campus, certain that if I were within a few minutes walking distance of a post office, I would unquestionably mail it. There is something kind of gross/weird about keeping one’s hair in one’s work desk for two years.
And then I took it back home because it was clear that plan was, how shall I put it, total crap.
But there’s a time limit to how long you can hold onto donatable hair, as it turns out, which is five years, and it would seem a real pity to tell everyone I was going to donate it, cut it, and then not actually donate it. In fact, it would have been arguably really stupid of me, and I don’t do stupid. I only do rad.
HOWEVER, the hair, it is in a baggie, it is in a padded envelope, sealed, and addressed, AND I WILL MAIL IT TODAY IF IT KILLS ME.