People, I've changed.
It's true. And disturbing. My internal gadgetry has been altered, perhaps permanently, because of my new navigational coordinates. Most notably, my hair is thicker.
I know! Thicker should be a good thing, right? I mean, most of America, as represented by the HBO writers of HUNG, loves thicker. Thicker is something women lust for and worship, right? We are willing to pay a lot of cold, hard cash for thickness. The hair product commercials, made by experts in all real life matters, confirm that thicker is better, healthier, sexier.
The truth is, I already have thick hair. Thick and fine. However, the water and humidity and air particles in Central Florida make my hair practically explode with frizz and coarseness, which translates to untamed, unattractive, and, well, old.
Yes, now we're getting down to it. You know how I hate to feel old, right? A single midlifer looking for love (mostly inactively looking, but still quite available to the guy who can check off the appropriate asset boxes with nary a kinky whisper in the negative column) -- yes, moi -- cannot afford to feel old. Cuz it shows. It's like a big blaring yellow sign that says, I'm pathetic, don't come any closer. I mean, peeps, despite investing a small fortune on all my taming and smoothing hair products, I still wake up every morning and witness each hair follicle jolting its shaft to full attention and expanding up its length all the way to the tip, right before my eyes. And, incredibly, it stays that way all day.
Hey, I'm lucky to have hair at all, I know. But frankly, the staying power of uber-frizz is one of life's little cruelties. It's taken over, and makes me want to sit on the sofa all day, paralyzed and craving peanut butter crackies, hair strung up in a ponytail. Woe is me. What could possibly make me feel better?
Oh look, HUNG is on. Later, my friends. Later.
June 26, 2010