My curly hair is thick, long, wiry, frizzy, akin to wearing a heating pad on my head and neck. But if I cut my locks short, they are kinky, frizzy, thick, and untamable. When I had short hair, I struggled to keep it in some form of a style (this was before flat irons, which I’m convinced were a gift from God himself. They basically fry your hair into submission). Instead of obeying my futile attempts at control with aqua net and hair gel, my hair would immediately curl and frizz the moment I walked out my front door. The Oklahoma humidity shows no remorse. The protection provided by the dry air within a home with central air conditioning was only temporary, and just as my glasses would fog up upon walking outside, so my hair would frizz. I remember driving to work after painstakingly working to get my hair under control, blasting the car air conditioning with the vents turned on my hair. I seemed to think that would protect it from the humidity. But it never did.
When I wear it long, the weight of my hair allows the curls to fall in a spiral instead of a tight curl against my head. I learned in high school that taming this mane is a full time job and I’m much too lazy for it. So it has been kept long for many years now.
Another bonus of having these tresses is that I shed constantly. In the shower I can barely tug on the ends of my hair and pull out a handful of hair that has already detached and is waiting for freedom. My husband is disgusted by the piles of hair that collect in the corners of the tub (yes, I do eventually collect them all and throw them away). I have to clean out the drain every few days. Ponytails are a saving grace for me, as they pull hair away from my face and they hold in those loose strands. A bald man would gasp at the hair I waste.
My hair gets everywhere in the house—even in places you don’t think it could get. Also, we have a yellow lab who sheds worse than I do. And we have 2 long haired cats that shed. Basically, my house is full of hair of every color. My wood floors—okay, fake wood floors—are dark, so they show all dust particles. I can sweep the floor and as soon as the vacuum is put away, there is more hair and dust. Using a broom gathers the big clumps of hair and dust, but the teeth in the broom merely disperses the individual hairs in a more random pattern than before. So it feels very futile. Keeping the hair off the floor is an unending feat that I have learned to not worry about too much. Dust Bunnies, as I have always heard them called, are an unending saga.
One day, Jeff made a comment about the ever-growing ghost turds. Um, excuse me? Did you say ghost turds? He said that in the military they were referred to as ghost turds. Why ghost turds? He’s not sure, except to ask, “Have you ever seen one form? No? Then how do they form? They are turds of ghosts.” Sadly, I think this sounds more realistic than dust bunnies. My husband, who likes order, is learning to let go of the ghost turd issues. He is learning that he may win a battle or two, but he cannot win that war. And some wars are not worth winning. They call for more frustration and effort than is truly worth spending. Sometimes, we have to raise that white flag and say, “meh. You win this time. I’ll battle you next week. But this week, well, my family time comes first.”