(Before: the demure folksinger.)
Usually when people ask me what this blog is about, I mumble something about, "my life and stuff", which is a fairly accurate description. If pressed, I could probably rattle of a few choice words like "The natural world, homemaking, herbal stuff, personal style, books, spirituality…", but really, "my hair", sits squarely among the most enduring topics of this blog.
At least once a year, I post some sort of harrowing tale about haircare, or more often, the lack thereof. I've posted about dry-shampoo, the-no-shampoo-method, generally never washing my hair, the environmental and emotional perils of dip-dye, and of course, my signature hairstyle (Can one actually call the length of the front-half of one's hair a style?): also known as bangs (or fringe if you're British). These posts seem to always mention the dichotomy between my being sort of obsessed with my hair, yet in a very abstract manner, where I absolutely refuse to spend any time, energy, or money on it (But will devote the time to bitch about it on the internet?).
One side-effect of my love-hate-hair-relationship seems to be that whenever my hair is just about perfect, the perfect length, texture, color, whatever, I get fixated on changing it somehow. I was, for instance, really happy with how my hair was right before I bleached the s*** out of it and dyed it crazy mermaid colors. Similarly, whenever my bangs reach what seems like the perfect "70s-folk-singer-length", I get the overwhelming urge to chop them into a short 90s length, at the risk of giving myself a great and wonderful mullet.
I would blame my most recent encounter with scissors on the concussion I got on Friday, but this seems to be an annual event now.
(After: intense forehead glare.)
Anybody else rocking a fairly awesome bowl-cut-mullet?
ps. In case anyone is wondering when we might get back to regular programming with actual posts, I'm sorry to say I don't have an ETA for anything but pieces about my cats and hair. If you're lucky, I might move onto posting about my dislike of confessional memoirs and preoccupation with embroidering things of absolutely no consequence.