For as long as I can remember my hair and I have had a tempestuous relationship. I like my hair because it means I’m not bald (always a bonus, especially as I’m a girl). My hair likes me because I keep it clean.
My hair doesn’t like me, I think mostly because of the pregnancy hormones I have walloped it with twice in the last four years. It has thickened up and then fallen out alarmingly, so to be fair, I’d be a bit miffed with me too.
I don’t like my hair because it cannot make up its mind if it is curly or straight. Just as I resign myself to the fact that it wants to be straight, it decides to be curly. And vice versa.
I also appear to have aquired some grey hairs long the way too. Because my hair is (currently) curly, the grey/white ones have a habit of sticking straight out. Yet another reminder that I am not actually nineteen, no matter how much I try to convince myself. One of my day zero tasks is to dye my hair to cover the greys. I think the time has come.