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Thursday, February 4, 2010


More crappy incomplete stuff

Long hair.
What the hell is up with everyone and long hair?
In the olden days, when a women committed adultery or slept around, she got her hair hacked off in a sort of deformed Peter Pan cut as a punishment. On TV and in movies, in the ‘70s and ‘80s, all the attractive, ultra popular girls had long, flowing manes that somehow managed to look somewhat regal and fabulously unsophisticated at the same time. Now, everywhere you look, nine out of ten girls have either long or mid-length hair. Only the apparently socially retarded “weird kids” would ever be caught dead wearing their hair short.
Ordinarily, this wouldn’t bother me so much. Personally, I happen to think my stylishly disheveled, jaw-length, angular semi-bob looks great on me. Not only does it suit the bone structure of my face, but it also suits my personality—it’s edgy, it’s different, it’s bouncy, it’s perfect for me.
Here’s the thing though. Everywhere I look the few girls with short hair that are not anti-social or psychotic or completely hideous—myself included—are constantly getting ignored by the male species for girls with shoulder-length, chest-length, or hip-length hair. Sometimes these girls are honestly not even remotely attractive, inside or out.
I must say—this annoys me. Contrary to what has unfortunately become popular belief, I have feelings too, and becoming a mere fly on the wall simply because of the length of my hair does not do them any good. Furthermore, I do not find it especially amusing when, on the rare occasion I can manage to find a guy I like who actually likes me back, he prods me to grow my hair out every other week.
I do not want to grow my hair out. I used to have it long when I was in middle school, and, as I’ve said before, I look better and am more comfortable with short hair. Although it might be fine for some people, to me, having long hair is a huge pain in the ass. It takes longer to wash, longer to brush, forever to straighten, and I could never get it to behave, no matter how much product I put in it.
That said, when I told my friend Jackie this for the millionth time on Monday and she responded that I should stop being a baby and grow it out anyway, I was less than pleased. Is it just me or does it seem like I’m always either getting ignored or being nagged?
“Seriously, Les,” She said, dipping her French fry in a glob of ketchup on her school lunch tray. “You would look so much better with another inch or so. I’m not saying you should be freakin’ Rapunzel or anything; I just want to see you try something new for once.”
“Really, Bree?”

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