whisker warfare…

We all have our struggles. Most keep them bottled up in an attempt to hide them from others keeping our near perfect image in tact (try not to point at anyone because when you point a finger…three are pointing back at you…and sticks with words on them break bones…I digress). However, those bottled-up struggles will one day rear their ugly heads at the most inopportune time (or conveniently during some form of public speaking) so it is best to share them with trusted friends as a form of relief to avoid eventual embarrassment.

Thanks to the interwebs, ubf has become my circle of trusted friends and I’m here today to get my struggle off of my chest. I ask that you not judge (at least not out loud through written comments because bloggers hate comments) given my limited control over this issue. Unfortunately I’ve had to deal with this from my early adolescence days all the way up until today. But sharing with a random collection of strangers will hopefully give me the much needed therapy I’ve been looking for to endure this struggle.

So my struggle is… *deep breath*…hair…seriously I have spent the majority of my life in a battle with hair. Don’t believe me? Let’s review a few examples:

Growing up everyone has their hearts set on having a pet. Whether it be dog, cat, gerbil or gremlin (admit it…they were cute until you fed them post midnight), all kids wanted a little furry companion. But as my luck would have it, my pet collection included gold fish (of the 2 week life span species) as my mother was allergic to pet hair. Not just dogs. Or just cats. But all pets. Try explaining the concept of allergic to a toddler. Damn you hair.

By definition, the onset of puberty is signified by the growth of adrogenic hair, colloquially body hair, in the usual sequence of underarm, upper lip, sideburn, and finally beard area. Evidently I’m still waiting given that I can count the hairs I currently grow in all of those places and I can’t really count that high.  Because of this, I’ve spent most of my life putting my deodorant directly on my shirts in order to save the time and chaffing. I often mistake eye lashes for chest hair if I don’t make any sudden moves. Seriously, what adult male can shave with whipped cream and gummy worms? I hate you hair.

While I have finally found my lane when it comes to hair styles (shout out to Kenny and H barbershop), it was a journey littered with more misses than hits. We had the front facing gumby stage at 11 yrs old. I then progressed to the ragged high top fade around age 14 that looked nothing like a #7 from the board. Before going off to college, I went for the milk dud bald look (accentuated by the two gold hoop earrings…I blame hip hop). During my rebellious “I’m not going to cut my hair to conform to being held down by THE MAN” stage in the middle of college, I went for the corn rows look. Unfortunately (and fortunately) it lasted all of 3 days before I realized that being able to turn my neck was of far more importance than any holding down THE MAN was doing. Luckily all of this happened prior to the digital-camera-post-your-pics-on-Facebook phenomenon. Although, I still hate you hair for those mental memories.

My misfortunes with hair even had genetic ramifications. I actually transferred my hair karma on to my nephew when he was 2 or 3 yrs old. I offered to give him a haircut not realizing that anyone between the ages of 24 and 36 months old is not the best candidate for sitting still enough to offset my shaking hands. Fast forward 25 minutes and he was doing his best cheetah impersonation. I blamed his age at the time while my sister blamed my lack of barber school attendance. I now come to know that it was your fault hair and for that I hate you.

So thank you ubf for listening to my struggle. I don’t feel any better but at least I don’t have to write a blog post now. What about you? Any hair horror stories? Or other struggles you want to get off your chest on this lovely hump day?

onetrik…aka mr. baby face…

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About usbottlesandfriends
The tales of unpredictable truths from those guys your mom warned you about.

3 Responses to whisker warfare…

  1. Tif says:

    I have spent the better part of my existence in a battle with hair, too. Albeit from an entirely different direction … I blame my Lebanese heritage, but, uh, shortage of hair has never been the problem. And I’m female, dammit.

  2. Monique says:

    I got braids for my 12th birthday. After 7 weeks, my mother felt it was time for them to come out. She was tired that night and proceeded to cut the braid so it can be easier to take out. I guess she forgot how long my real hair was (to the middle of my back) and decided to cut the braid around my ear. She cut off all my damn hair!! I was traumatized! She was apologetic. But I still had to go to school with my all kind of layers on my head. I had short piece in the front, on the side and in the back. I also had a long piece in the front, on the other side and in the back, along with other various blunt cut lengths! That was the worst experience during middle school!! My mother is no longer allowed near my hair with scissors. She will never touch my hair again. My hair has never gotten that long ever since that day. It just stops growing once it reaches my shoulder!

  3. Pingback: signs that you might be the one… « Us, Bottles, and Friends

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