I need hairapy

Its been a long time since i let my hair go.

I know. You're asking who cares? Well, i do. And if you are really asking, then you obviously are not a woman. Furthermore, you are not a black woman. Since i am, let me give you wisdom. I AM MY HAIR. Fxck you India Arie (j/k, i love you India, we just don't see eye to eye sometimes). Unlike the mantra of the aforementioned song, I am in so many ways defined by my hair. It is an indication of my mood, my outlook, my ethnicity, my happenings. I can only speak for myself when i say that if you want to know who i am, what I'm going through or what image i am trying to embody, take a look at my head.

When my life is a chaotic, work-filled mess so are my unruly curls. And my tresses will probably look thin and stringy, because when the going gets tough i literally pull it out.

When I'm feeling sexxay, you are almost guaranteed to find my tresses flipped suggestively to one side...like come hither and nibble on this side of the neck baby ;-)

When I'm mad. Middle part. Dead straight. Serious.

When I'm overwhelmed, or lazy, or tired: Bun....big big bun.

When my life is out of control, and i want to crawl up under something and hide...Wig.

(Notice the substantially messy dorm room behind me. Out of control.)

When I'm feeling giddy or like a kid? You guessed it. Silly little ponytail.

When i find zen in my life. So does my hair. Natural, neat, peaceful.

Unfortunately, i recently put myself in a little predicament that has screwed me up. Majorly.

In a moment of "wanting-to-be-different" weakness, I chopped it all off.

But the plan backfired. Because it turns out that Rihanna was going through the same thing. And a week later,

...She debuted the same shxt. And it just so happens that she's famous. So of course it would seem that i was jocking her. :-x

To be honest, i really jacked the style from V. Beckham:

But thats so not the point.

I saw the onslaught of Rihannapalooza in the beauty salons and decided that I hated my hair.

But since it was too short to even put in a silly little ponytail, I was screwed.

I am my hair, and my hair is screwed. I'm screwed.

And as i loathed my hair, my hair reciprocated by bending and curling itself into unrecognizable shapes which epitomized the very reason why i hated it, palpably.

Now, i am on the hunt for a bomb ass weave. suggestions? anyone?

But wtf does it mean if i, admittedly, am my hair, and my hair, admittedly, is a weave. Ugh. Who the hell ponders this shxt? Me. That's who.
Am i then fake? No; although my hair is.

Will it mean that i am striving to reach anglo-saxon beauty ideals? Nope. I'm black. I don't want to be anything else.

Why the stigma around extensions, when they are nothing but that; extensions of our own tresses. I guess us black girls aren't real unless we have short natural hair.

Whatever. At the end of the day, i am my hair. And as long as it looks good, i am happy. And in the end, isn't happiness all that matters? I hope you fnd pathos in my struggle. And as a result, i hope you help me find a new do....cuz i need some serious hairapy voyeurs.