For years I have cringed as I watched my daughters' hair fall out due to their various autoimmune and rheumatological conditions. Oh, I know I complain about that "Hair Art" plastered to the shower. If I recall correctly, even Seinfeld had a stand-up routine based on a stray hair making its way down a shower wall. And if he could make fun of it, so can I.
But this time I'm not laughing. This time the hair is mine. It's mine, but it's no longer mine as I wrap it in a tissue and throw it away. It's no longer mine as I pick it off of my clothing or sweep it off the bathroom floor.
Oh hair, why can't I glue you back in? I'm sorry if I have taken you for granted in the past. I'm sorry if I subject you to blow dryers, sprays, and straighteners; to pony tails, braids, and messy buns. You weren't messy, mind you, the bun was. It was all my doing! And I'm sorry for coloring you every four weeks, making you feel unloved in your natural state.
If I could only take back the times in the past when I have declared that it was a Bad Hair Day, I would. You were never bad, hair, it was the day that was bad. It was always just a bad day.
And I'm especially apologetic for taking this god-awful medicine which has caused you to jump ship and abandon me. I think it may be poison. The warning on the package insert says that a woman has to be off of this medicine for SEVEN YEARS before she can attempt to become pregnant! This medicine stays in your body for that long. I guess that's one way to reduce the number of Sjogren's sufferers: Don't allow them to reproduce.
Oh hair did our love go?
