Let’s not discuss what’s outside my head and what’s inside my head they are not worth mentioning. What is open to discussion is what is on my head, my hair.
The wind plays with my hair that is whipping in all directions like tentacles exploring the space for me, “you are the most beautiful creature on Earth—say my hair in a language that only hair can speak.” The breeze strokes my hair. There’s something so tender about the gesture. It might well have been nature whispering I love you. My hair is going up in value, it’s silver.. I like to call it God’s graffiti.
When I was younger I had curly long hair, my friend called it my mane of hair and I called it bane of hair however it is far worse looking when is it short, straight up in awkward angles like it has been struck with lightening, at least when it was long it obeyed laws of gravity. As of now my hair is grown long and shaggy not in that artsy stylish unkempt manner, but in that time to take rover-to-the groomer kind of way.
I chopped my hair shoulder length I thought I was relaxing my hair, but relaxing your hair is like being in a prison!! You’re caged in. your hair rules you. You can’t go running because you don’t want to sweat out the straightness, you are fighting a losing battle to make you hair do what it was not meant to do.