(I need to nip this pun-in-the-blog-title thing in the bud … it’ll get bad)
I have good hair. I mean, I’m no Tami Taylor (who is!?) but it’s thickish, and longish, and when I throw mumble-dollars at it, it’s the right colour too.
Some of you may recall Lesbian Trucker-Gate, when I took a trip down Cliché Lane and let my pregnancy hormones get the better of my hairdresser. But by the time I had Little Bun, the hideous cut had grown out – and in the rare occasions I had time to turn a hairdryer on, my hair was the only thing about me that looked the same post, as it did pre-pregnancy.
But- it’s falling out. Yes – NOW. I thought I’d skipped that bit!? LB is four months old!!
Here is where my hair is:
- The floor
- The shower
- The sink
- OK, the whole goddamn bathroom is a shrine to my fallen hair
- My clothes
- My daughter … literally, I’m shedding all over her like an enthusiastic cat
Here is where my hair, increasingly, isn’t:
- My head