Hairy tales

When I was a kid I had three fears:
1. Spiders
2. My hair gets burnt
3. Somebody cuts my hair and puts it in the box
[I had nightmares after seeing my mothers ponytail in the box. Shudders.]

Few weeks ago J (5) asked me why he is looking like a girl. Well, both of the boys are very nice looking and they both have the Julian haircut. Every once in a while some stranger calls them sweet little girls and I have noticed J gets upset. I may have to get some courage later in my life and if they want short boys hair I may have to say yes.

I have heard that short hair is nice and easy and whatever.

This is my bad hair year:
1. Spring
It's silvery gray day. The seagulls shout in the wind.
My hair is tangled.
It takes two hours to brush it straight.
2. Summer
The kids run on the golden hot beach.
My sunburned hair is full of sand, ice-cream, seagulls poo and salt.
It takes two hours to wash and brush it.
3. Autumn
The air is full of wet, orange leaves and leaving birds.
My hair is just wet like a dishrag.
4. Winter
It's black and white.
My hair is as electric as a small power station.
I'm just like a very pale rastafarian.
It takes two hours to brush it back to the shape.

If my hair would be short I wouldn't get stuck:
1. Between closing tram doors
2. In to somebody's handbag
3. In to some stangers' fingers whilst they are shaking hands [it's embarrassing]
4. In to a former celebrity's leather jacket

Few years ago I had enough of sitting painfully on my own hair and let the hairdresser to cut 12 inch off.
It wasn't worth of it. Nobody noticed a thing, except the hairdresser who charged me some mystical long-hair-extra-fee.
I bought my own scissors, but don't have the guts to cut my own hair.
My hair hurts.