In which we contemplate shaving our head

Dear lord it’s muggy. It’s like Houston up in here. My hair is huge. HUGE! And not in that “the higher the hair, the closer to god” Dallas huge either, I mean; full on pre raphaelite with a finger in the light socket, huge. People in the 70’s only wish they could have had hair this big.

And I have a hair appointment today with a new stylist, whom I haven’t met, but who has done a nice job on some ladies that I know. So I’m hopeful she can tame this monster. But I tell ya, I’m kinda manic today, it’s super hot, I’ve got another two months of taking Boy to the pool almost every day, I’m still in a walking cast, and about the last thing in the world I want to do is fuck with my hair every day.

I may cut off my hair. Not like that weird middle aged bob that everyone in this town seems to get when they turn 40, but maybe lose a couple of feet and take it up to my shoulders. I dunno. I always say I’m going to cut off my hair, but when I do, I cry for days. But gawddahm it’s hot and I hate, hate, HATE sweating. (Why, in the name of all that is holy I’m still in the heatsink that is the Texas plains when I don’t really like the hot, baffles me.)

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