I doth protest.
Just when I’m getting comfortable with my fat, Winter arrives earlier than expected, in all it’s white splendor. Er, grey dreariness.
I have been plucking my grey hair. There. I said it. I can feel my fellow feminists shaking their heads in dismay. I feel like a soldier who’s deserted. Here I am, encouraging all of you to embrace yourselves no matter what, while I find a new patriarchal mandate to obsess about. That’s just great.
This feminism thing, it’s kinda hard. As in all things, I aim for perfection (one of my many vices, or virtues, or vices. I don’t know). So feeling like a C-average feminist is totally humiliating. But I figure honesty is still the best policy when it comes to my blog. So maybe my comrades will give me a pass on this one (fingers crossed).
These grey hairs, they aren’t ugly. They’re just surprising. And I know I can’t keep plucking them. At this rate, and despite how much hair I have, I could be bald in a couple of years. And that, I am not ready for.
Plus I always imagined I’d have a perfect grey fro, like model Renee Davis. My coiffed curls framing my face in sophisticated style, making me look demure and cosmopolitan.
|This is how my grey hair DOESN’T look.|
Yeah. It hasn’t gone down like that. It grows in disparate directions, staying close to the crown, and tries to hide behind the other hairs, so I can’t find it and pluck it. Sometimes I win, and am washed over with the weird pleasure that only popping a pimple can rival. But other times I get frustrated, give up and let them live another day.
This dance, however, is getting laborious and dull. I figure I have two options:
- Dye my hair, or
- Let it do what it do.
|Shoe shopping heaven.|
I guess it’s an easier decision that I thought. Thank God for my shoe obsession.