I am officially a mop. A Sasquatch. Cousin Itt.
S’true. S’not attractive either.
But you know what? I figure in these dicey uncertain times, more and more people will follow my lead and choose to appear dangerous and feral as a form of self-defense. I mean, who’s gonna try to grab you and eat you if you look like a mangy demented troll? So, it’s the smart choice, the forward-thinking choice. In other words, it’s all good, as the kind of people I can’t stand always say.
Please allow me to document my complete break with the grooming norms of modern society with my uber-cruppy cell phone which apparently takes only one size of photo: unnervingly large. So if gigantic images of wild woolly mammoths unhinge or demoralize you, well, you’ve been warned.
I, uhm … feel a little lost …. maybe a little vulnerable …. about my encroaching Cousin Itt-ness. I mean, it’s deforestation in rapid reverse. (So then, would that be “reforestation,” Trace?) As a matter of fact, The Hundred Acre Wood atop my head has been officially declared “environmentally friendly” by the EPA, The Sierra Club, and Leonardo Di Caprio. While I could not give one tiny rat’s bottom what the EPA and The Sierra Club think of me and my home-grown nature preserve, Leo’s good opinion means a lot to me. It does. He’s the king of the world, you know, and that must always give a girl pause. And, now that I think of it, Obama, I think I deserve some kind of tax rebate for growing my Sherwood Forest thusly and decreasing my carbon footprint and saving the planet and blahdie blahdie blah.
Or you may send me a puppy.
The dementia of the Sasquatch.
“Well, helloo, Clarice.”
Oh, you poor hairy girl. I know what you’re trying to do here — trying to cover up what’s really going on. It goes way beyond the whole Forbidden Forest dealio you’ve got going on atop thee olde noggin. What you and I both know, little yeti, is that you made a horrifying attempt at deforestation the other day and chopped your bangs to smithereens and you now look like it’s picture day at Sasquatch Elementary. It’s bad. Your very own Beloved has been reduced to nervously and repeatedly uttering, “ohh, you’re … darling” — most likely to keep himself from swooning with laughter and you from slitting your remarkably hairless wrists. All too soon, he will start gently reminding you, “Heey …. don’t you like hats?” and you will fall dead on the spot. So go ahead. Smush those reckless tangles around your head all you want. I see what’s really poking out there. Foghorn Leghorn. Tsk, tsk, I say, I say.
The smushy cover-up continues, unabated and embarrassing. This is even worse. Scraps of bangs shoot straight out of my head whilst I try to look coy. Gah. What a wiener. I am a’quiver with self-loathing.
See? See?? The little tuft of banglet to the right?? Dangling like a loose shingle several feet above my eyebrow?? I did that. I DID that. AGGHHHH!!! The massive hair carnage lying limp on my bathroom counter could have combed-over many a naked skull, but, no, I threw it away. Selfish Sasquatch.
Losing touch with reality. Hair tightening its hairy grip. Calling to me. Becoming one with hair. Becoming nothing but hair. I am lost to me.
Farewell, polite society …….
