Warning. This post is pure fluff.
No deep thoughts or philosophical concerns today.
While I am busy applying for free medications (thanks Dr. Gelburd)! and collecting supplies (thanks Jennifer!) for Dr. Laure's clinic and a few other upstanding summer projects, I am also thinking about my hair.
Apparently, Sarah and I both think about hair a lot.
After several years of hair-growing the urge - or obsession - with chopping it all off in anticipation of another steamy round of Kinshasa is upon me. This is a cycle. A very un-unique issue that plagues women around the world who are not bound by some cultural or religious hair promise. In Congo, nobody ever dares describe someone by their hair, because thanks to wigs, a woman is bound to change it up frequently. Even Mama Vida, who is far from fashion-obsessed, has shocked us on occasion when she decided she needed a hair change.
My hair has always been resistant to length. Which I took as a challenge. So, after five or nine years, it's just below my shoulders.
Luxuriously long for me. I was proud of it and my own feeble attempts at a high hipster top-knot, until I saw this photo:
So. Now the question is: If I do the chop, can I convince Sarah and/or Johan to help me cut my own hair so that it keeps looking like the above picture for the next several months? Or is forcing your friend/husband to be your stylist team against their will officially a horrible idea and I should just get a wig already?