The Dread Mishap
I'm sitting here in a towel with my hair wet and wrapped up tight against my head, about two inches at the most from my scalp, half of it knotted like I'm a crazy bag lady who just lets the wind take care of her style.
I had dreads for twenty four hours. I suppose I still do, but they're dying off from shampoo and moisturizer. It was my attempt to be a little bit more of a hippy, a little bit more earthy, alternative, what have you. I was waking up and going without brushing it anyway, so I figured it would be the next logical step.
Unfortunately, it didn't take. I could say my hair is super thin and the dreads looked very wiry, but it was moreso that they hurt really bad. I'm a wimp. Before I knew it I was fantasizing about shampoo, and a normal, clean, happily unitchy and painless scalp. I started to waver, became stressed out, and then it was another impulsive decision to cut.
I don't know how I got so wired to be "all for nothing," but that's me. I had to put the goofy things in and see how they looked and felt before deciding whether I wanted them or not. And I didn't even have the patience to let them grow for a few weeks and then see how I felt. I am one impatient mother-fucker.
In a short eulogy, I'd like to note that my dreadies were born on April 22, coming into the world under the great care of Nick Brent and Hattie Bailey, Coors Light, and some additional painkillers. Labor was an intensive ten hours with only two cigarettes and a lump pillow for my rear to sit upon.
The first dread was given birth by Nick, and was named Doofus. Doofus underwent major plastic surgery and turned out quite beautiful, complete with a bead, and was located just above my right ear. Phatty Albert had a blue rubber band and was located in the back of my head. He was very much liked by the crowd, as well as Princess, who stood tiny and alone on the top of my head. I think Princess had a bead too.
Right now they are stubs. If stubs is a word. And my deep apologies go out to the mechanics, for their hard labor and belief in my dreads and belief in how cute I looked with them. I can only say I'm sorry and that I intend to stop making such impulsive decisions and taking everyone through the ringer with me when I do.
I shall continue to mourn for the next four days, if you wish to send flowers or cards of condolences, it's 118 Gilman.
