Thoughts are not the only kind of trail I leave. There is another kind of trail that I am notorious for – hair trail. No seriously. My presence at a place can be traced long after I have departed. I am convinced that my hair is absolutely mortified to be a part of me -“What!!! Her???! That’s it! Am out!!” It holds as much disgust towards me as I have to it sticking to my clothes, bed, backpack, scarf – everything. The feeling is entirely mutual. It is after all hard to love something that does not reciprocate your feelings in any way.
I have been considerate enough though by trying to understand its whimsical moods and preferences. Some examples: “Do not disturb when I am wet with oil or water.” “Don’t even touch me when I feel hot. Wait till I am cool”. “No twirling me. What am I a toy?”. “No exposure to dust. Cover me or be covered with me.” Despite all these outrageous demands, I have always complied – mostly.
What do I get in reward? A temporary and uneasy ceasefire. One wrong move from my side and the war resumes…. The sad truth is – apart from tearing my hair out in frustration, I have absolutely nothing else to do than to put up with the dictator :(.