A letter to my hair
You’re a mess.
Thick. Frizzy. Wavy, but not the gently-toussled-I-just-got-back-from-the-beach kind of wavy – the I’ve-been-standing-outside-in-a-hurricane kind of wavy. I kept you short for most of my life because you refuse to cooperate with me, but after I got pregnant, I let you grow out. I’m not sure why. Maybe I was lulled into a false sense of security by the way my pregnancy hormones made you look all shiny and soft. Now, at almost eight months postpartum, you’re back to your old messy self, except there’s more of you. If it were up to me, I’d CUT YOU OFF.
But I can’t. Because the Popple loves you.
Grabbing you in her fists and and stuffing you in her mouth is pretty much her favourite thing ever. When she can’t fall asleep at night, nothing helps like tugging on your tangled strands. She doesn’t see the puffy reddish-brown mess that I see when I look in the mirror. She sees beautiful, delicious mommy hair.
So you can stay. For now.