The Perils of Having a Voluptuous Mop

i have always liked the idea of having long hair (and a set of weepers that could puncture your left ventricle, and gams from here to ya-ya). but never having any patience at all, i've had mostly babyhawks, messy boy hair, bobs, pixie head, and so forth. now the hour is upon me, the time of reckoning, and though i think i've become pretty damn zen in my old-er age, i have a lot of reasons to doubt. first of all, i never used to wash my mop. never. unless there was a cake fight or something. i dyed it. and it got rinsed. and that was about it. but NOW, my gosh, like a chaste girl from the fifties, i'm always washing my hair. because i have to. and those who know me well know i don't like having to do stuff. and when i do wash it, i find the strands that no longer feel like being a part of me have taken their exodus, due to bodily physics and gravity, into my asscrack. damn you, newton! hands to sky, physics, when are you gonna stop screwing me. for those who don't know, pulling a wad of hair out of your asscrack is like living your own personal horror movie. alienation from my body part 4.
plus i'm rivaling my cat in household shedding.
i keep running to the bathroom mirror with my wicked glinting shears raised over my head, a maniacal look in my eyes, and an evil grin on my face....but right before my most sinister laugh begins to curdle from deep within as i plunge into the cut, something stops me dead. i look at that hair. and i know i just can't kill what has taken me so long to grow. and yes, perhaps it's silly to be proud of something one does naturally, like grow hair, but if you take that away from me, i have nothing left to be proud of. and i think it knows. it's so close to my brain, how can it not?
a tumble weed rolls by. i grab my six-shooter, point it towards my hair and...
stay tuned for the exciting conclusion of Bobby Pins in the Dust when we return next week.
-dr. h
p.s. here is some art my hair made in the shower. i call it "The Cosmic Drama".