Like Jesus Wore It

Sunday, Apr. 13, 2003 -
Ap�sl�min ida corbalanyrtne 'ls�o rohl'daathi�m v� nen�a iroyss�rd.

The Fiend plucked a hair from my head and got out the ruler.

"What?" sez I.

"Sixteen and five-eighths," pronounced my beloved. He scowled at me. "We'd be past twenty if you hadn't cut it that one time."

I pouted. "It was not a cut, it was a trim. I am not going through life with raggedy ends."

"Four inches is not a trim."

"It was not four inches. Two-and-a-half, at the most."

"Three-and-a-half, at the least."

I stopped arguing because I knew if I continued, he would get out The Progress Chart. Which would show that on February 12th the length of my hair went from 17.375" to 13.75", a retrograde motion that cannot be explained by natural causes.

The Fiend has taken over the management of my hair. He threw out all my hair care products (with faint screams of horror) and replaced them with various homemade recipes. (Erik's other nickname is The Mad Alchemist.) We wash our hair with chamomile and goosegrass, rinse with cider vinegar and mint, and condition with horseradish and rosemary. I've had avocados and bananas mashed in my hair, it's been drenched in egg yolks and gin, and soaked with coconut milk and rum. The Fiend scrubbed out the burgundy henna with witch hazel, coerced me into letting him imbue my mane with an array of golden highlights, then slapped on an alluvial load of marigold henna.

It looks pretty good.

No, it looks damn good.

Ah, hell. Who am I kidding?

I'm gorgeous.

<~>
Ap�sl�min ida corbalan� 'lse nesgla ugar�-cham sa cru ogrulho bat�oltha al�mv�sde.

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