As my hair grows, so does our relationship

I shall defenestrate thee, oh scissors

As my hair becomes longer, I increasingly find it making its way into my mouth. Nasty, really.
But coming out of the shower tonight, for the first time in my life, I responded by chewing.
Freshly cleaned hair that's thick like mine is a fine gnawing toy late in the day. Of all the
virtues and benefits to long[er] hair, its chewability is among the most compelling. Imagine
if this becomes habit--I will be known as he who chews his hair, the suckler of skull sprouts,
the 'nick gnasher (as in beatnick, since they all had long hair, right? right.). Well, foremost,
freshly cleaned hair tastes like Australian wildflowers because that's what my shampoo
tastes like. A related event also occurred today, when the lady at the bagel shop admitted
that she awoke to find her straightener broken a week ago and has yet to recover from the
trauma. She asked me if I used a straightener myself, seeing my long[er] hair. I told her
that no, I in fact absolutely do not, but admitted sheepishly that I am now carrying a hair
brush around in my messenger bag (the man purse of architects, particularly when hair
brushes are to be found in them). From the bagel shop exchange, I scored three free over-
cooked bagels--just the way I like them. Thanks, hair.


Chanson d'installation: uhm, uh, Sunny Day Real Estate, Days Were Golden (*wink* to TiHB)