twerkinghannibal:
waffleawful:
You’re curling. You’re curling. You just keep curling. It never ends. There’s always more hair.
It’s 90 in March. You think that maybe this year you’ll save yourself the pain and get it cut short. Then you remember that the hairdresser at your local salon has only nine fingers now, and you don’t know that you can blame the scissors again.
You wonder when your bobby pins will come back from the war.
People reach out to play with you hair, but your hair doesn’t want to play. They lose a hand and still the hair’s hunger goes unquenched. Who will be its next victim?
It is tangled again. You just brushed it 15 minutes ago. You ignore the growling coming from behind you as you go to brush it again.
You squeeze conditioner into your hand. You keep squeezing. More. More. It is never enough.
There’s hair everywhere. On your bed. In the shower. On your clothes. Good god, you’re surrounded.
Hair ties scream at the strain of containing your hair. People pretend not to hear them. They only get louder.
It is humid outside. You cannot feel it, but you know. Your hair makes sure you know. This only happens on days you’ve straightened it. Your friends laugh uncomfortably when you suggest that perhaps it is sentient. You play it off as a joke, but it keeps you up at night, wondering.
You stand outside the shower. your hair isn’t wet yet. you turn shower on and under its hot spray but still water runs over tub fills room. struggle to stay afloat. is not wet.
Your bathroom counter is a war zone, the corpses of clips and ties strewn about, never to be used again. You cannot bring yourself to throw them out.
Something pokes at your head. You did not put anything in your hair. You don’t think this pin even belongs to you. But your hair has claimed it now, like a dragon with its hoard.