I just got my hair hacked off on Saturday and I’m still wiggin’ out, I’m not gonna lie. I spent enough time in the eighties trying to rock a “bi-level” ’do to know that my cowlicks are not kind to short cuts (and as you can see at right, fifth grade is not kind to anyone).
My bangs are a constant challenge. The left side of my bangs, if left to its own devices, scrunches itself into a sort of zigzag pattern. Harry Potter may have his scar to bear, but I have a fucking lightning bolt lock of hair to suffer on a daily basis. Living in Seattle, this and other cowlicks roam free.
My brothers called me Heifer Head when I was a kid (Chris and John were real charmers) but now I suspect it’s not because I was over my fighting weight. It’s because my scalp was catnip to cows far and wide. Take the back of my head, for instance. Swirls and whorls give me a, um, fullness at my crown while pieces at my nape curve and peek out from the back of my neck, taunting me in the mirror with their everlasting defiance. Now that the back is shorn, I have a cockscomb of hair rising at the crown and fresh shoots sprouting from my nape.
My spirit is strong even if my follicles are weak, so I'm bringing out the styling paste, smothering, strangling, and smacking down those asshat cowlicks until they lie down and submit to my Bumble & Bumble.
Thank God I have a lot of hats.