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ONE FLAT SHEET
Apr. 21st, 2008 11:17 pmMy hair, after a certain length, can not be tamed by any means I've tried. It defies gels, sprays, and pomades, can't be combed or brushed to any end but mess of hair atop a misshapen, abnormally small skull. That's where my hair is right now and it makes me awfully self conscious. If I were more of a man, I wouldn't care about it at all. If I were less of a man, I would spend more time doing something about it. I just want to look good, is all. Organized hair translates to clean hair. There are heads of hair that always look unkept and unclean. Mine is one of those. People notice and respect a sharp head of hair. I know there's more to my going unnoticed than a sloppy coif, but it wouldn't hurt to have sweet do.
It's somewhere between wavy and curly. Thick is what it is, real thick. My sideburns curl upwards at the arms of my glasses into fruity wings. There's a rebellious flock of strands front and center that wants nothing to do with the rest. And it grows unevenly, fastest on the sides and slowest in the back. After about an inch in length, it does whatever it wants.
It was straight until puberty started, and since then I've wanted a normal head of hair. On the late bus after Biology in 8th grade, somehow the focus of conversation was directed toward my hair and how it could be puffed into an afro. Whichever girl was in charge, I want to say Melanie Werner but I'm not sure, wanted to see how big my hair could get, so she started asking around for a hairbrush. I didn't object. It would be good publicity, I thought. Of all the insecurities I carried with me at the time, many of which I still have, my hair was by far the least and I was willing to exploit it for a good laugh.
Anyway, Melanie or whoever asked around for a hairbrush; she really wanted to see my hair in an afro. And she asked Jenny DiOrio. Jenny had a brush, it was obvious in the way she looked when asked. What was obvious only to me was that she really didn't want that brush to touch my nasty hair. She warily gave it up, and as Melanie or whoever prompted me tease my hair out with Jenny's brush, I could see the look on Jenny's face get more and more distant. It's more harsh when you can simply sense another person's disgust for you than if they express it verbally. And in this case, it was loud and clear to me that Jenny didn't want her hairbrush running through my hair. I bet she threw it out when she got home.
Jenny was so pretty too. She's the girl who turned me on to wide hips and plump asses. She had big, sleepy-looking sexy eyes and a pleasant smile between thickish lips. I bet she's still a knockout. And I was the shortest kid in middle school.
She really didn't want me using that hairbrush.
It's somewhere between wavy and curly. Thick is what it is, real thick. My sideburns curl upwards at the arms of my glasses into fruity wings. There's a rebellious flock of strands front and center that wants nothing to do with the rest. And it grows unevenly, fastest on the sides and slowest in the back. After about an inch in length, it does whatever it wants.
It was straight until puberty started, and since then I've wanted a normal head of hair. On the late bus after Biology in 8th grade, somehow the focus of conversation was directed toward my hair and how it could be puffed into an afro. Whichever girl was in charge, I want to say Melanie Werner but I'm not sure, wanted to see how big my hair could get, so she started asking around for a hairbrush. I didn't object. It would be good publicity, I thought. Of all the insecurities I carried with me at the time, many of which I still have, my hair was by far the least and I was willing to exploit it for a good laugh.
Anyway, Melanie or whoever asked around for a hairbrush; she really wanted to see my hair in an afro. And she asked Jenny DiOrio. Jenny had a brush, it was obvious in the way she looked when asked. What was obvious only to me was that she really didn't want that brush to touch my nasty hair. She warily gave it up, and as Melanie or whoever prompted me tease my hair out with Jenny's brush, I could see the look on Jenny's face get more and more distant. It's more harsh when you can simply sense another person's disgust for you than if they express it verbally. And in this case, it was loud and clear to me that Jenny didn't want her hairbrush running through my hair. I bet she threw it out when she got home.
Jenny was so pretty too. She's the girl who turned me on to wide hips and plump asses. She had big, sleepy-looking sexy eyes and a pleasant smile between thickish lips. I bet she's still a knockout. And I was the shortest kid in middle school.
She really didn't want me using that hairbrush.
