I’m in love with messy hair. Of course I am. Locks that speak of abandon and nonconformity. Static flyaways, homeless spaghetti strands just separated from the tines or luscious bouncy toddler curls. Tendrils with attitude. Dry, crumpled or crazy. Multi-colored, glossy or grey roots – no judgement here. Hairs kissed by nature sporting bits of leaves, twigs and fuzzy nothings, fashioned like nests. Home to creative thoughts and what ifs. Messy tresses matter. Something liberating about not giving a fuck in a rule bound society.
Ah, yes, these hidden rules. Hide your cray-cray. Be neatly trimmed, tame, frizz-free, smooth, controlled, unicolor, behaving… YAWN. Must we always tame the mane? Pile the mop up top? Too much efforting. I’ve often contemplated shaving my head. After all, I’m so much more. More than just my hair. AND my FU is quite large, it’s bought and paid for.
But who tf am I kidding? I am nothing without my hair. How would I show my non-conformity? My church-lady? One finger salute? my sexy? My good girl? My LMAO? My creativity? Professionalism? Timelessness? My faithful servant? My broken soldier? My uncaged beast? My look-at-me-now? My true hair nature?
My messy hair without a voice – HAIRINGITIS – just hairendous. Hairlarious. Hair today- gone tomorrow. Gone the ability to say so much… without speaking, without a tease…I mean trace. Without argument. Without permission or apology.
Hair I am, in love with it all.
A Fish Named Karen 
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