Fort Awesome

Some time ago I think I decided, mainly through sheer inaction, to grow my hair. Yes yes, pedants, I am always growing my hair, you know I mean “to allow my hair to grow to a specified length”. And yes, Natalie, I mean the collective hair as in “all the hairs on my head” not the singular “a hair”. The last time I grew it was in the 4th year, and that means school. That means… age 16? Yes, I believe it does. The thick, wavy nature of my hair means that when it reaches any length it becomes large, and 70s-like. I look like Fez from the 70s show, except not Mexican, and with a different face and body, and different coloured hair.

Actually, I did grow it in the 2nd year of Uni too but I only just remembered. It wasn’t very Memorable, and hence it may as well have never happened. I gave up, flaked out, before it got to any length. That’s the main trouble; I want to see how I might be with flowing locks, but there is always the limbo between short and long hair where I look, post-shower, fully-dried, like Pat Sharpe with his mullet. Okay, not quite that bad.

This time I’m determined to break the hair barrier into that hedonistic world of long hair, so that I can infiltrate hippy camps and line their soles with sawdust. I can put my hair over my face and pretend to be Cousin It. I can, and I will. But not yet, little one.

The reason I think it’s going to work this time is that before now I’ve been at school or Uni, under the self-consciousness inducing gaze of many peers, and I eventually give in to getting it cut short (at which point my mother comments that short hair suits me and I agree but I want long hair damnit). But this time, I’m in a house with three housemates, and I don’t give a shit about what they think. God, I hate them and I hope they all die. Hi guys! What am I writing? Oh … nothing.

If you look at the word hair too much it stops having any meaning.