I don’t know what I have done to you to make you hate me so. Unlike my dolls, I never painted you, I never pulled you apart, I have never tried to flush you down the toilet, and I never, ever forgot that you exist. How can I do the last thing when you make your presence known all the time by poking me in the head?
You know Dear Headband, if it was only poking I would probably be able to cope. But it isn’t is it? And don’t play coy, you know it isn’t. It’s more of a stabbing, more of a skull shape changing pressure you exert on my head all the time. It’s not pleasant. Why do you do it? Is there anyone out there who can actually wear you for a whole day without sobbing with relief as they pull you off? I don’t think I can compare that sheer joy to anything else. But alas it only lasts a second or two because then the skull – the poor, bruised skull – starts to regain its rightful shape. Headband, this is a list of things that are more painful than that:
- Chinese water torture – there is a reason why this isn’t a thing
- Miley Cyrus’ no eyebrow look – I quite like my eyebrows, thank you
- Realising in high school that every Indian in your class has blond hair and blue eyes except for you and you wonder then, as you wonder now, what the fuck was, and still is, wrong with them
- That people call vaginas ‘kitty’
And that’s it Headband, that’s it.
I want to love you Headband, I want you to fit like a dream because maybe for the first hour, when I can ignore the gently increasing amounts of pain, you look amazing. You keep my hair off my face without me having to tie it up – and let’s be honest one great perk of having long hair is to use it as a scarf when it’s freezing and you bring out the brown in my cheekbones. People look at the lace hiding your vice like grip and wish they had one too. Hah! They have no idea and I think that’s what you count on. Oh don’t pretend otherwise, you like making us suffer.
And this is why I am letting you go. I am metaphorically flushing you down the toilet, something I know now would probably destroy the plumbing in my house as you like to wreak havoc and destruction wherever you go, and saying goodbye. One day one the pain is a distant memory I may buy you again, because let’s face it, you are occasionally very pretty. I may spend years and years trying one style after the other in a vain and eventually fruitless attempt to find one which doesn’t make me want to sob quietly in a corner. It could be my life’s mission.
Or then again I may just tie my hair up.
(Image credit: French Blossom)