Not the original version, I know, but a more accurate adage for someone like me.
Monica (aka mom) and her descendants know more than their fair share about having thick hair. Add length and suddenly you can't get in your car without shutting it in the door, you can't sit in a metal chair without something being yanked out of your head, your husband can't put his arm around you without you yelling "ouch, ouch, ouch, ahhhh!" - all true stories. It doesn't hold curl anymore because it's too heavy, any ponytail comes with a side of ibuprofen, the list goes on and on.
Enough self-loathing. I decided last summer that I would grow my hair out to donate it to Locks of Love. I was aiming for 12 inches this time, as a few years ago I donated 10. I let it get really, really long and though I had some issues with it (ehhem, see above paragraph), I loved it. It was an accessory. An elaborate, grand accessory.
While I was busy nursing a love/hate relationship with my hair, other people in my life were beginning rounds of chemotherapy, receiving sobering diagnoses, and losing ones they love to a disease called cancer. They say that at this point it's not if you get cancer, but instead what kind you're going to get. (I imagine mine will be skin cancer, hence my avoidance of tanning beds and diligence in wearing sunscreen. Seriously, if you've ever been outside with me in the summer, I'm like a sunscreen pusher on anyone around me. Don't believe me? Ask my dad.)
In the end, I donated 14 inches to Locks of Love. Hair so thick that Sandy, the person I trust (haha), had to put it in two ponytails. A third person in the salon saw them sitting on the counter and asked if one was mine. "Yep!" I said, trying to hide my anxiety. Then she found the other and asked Sandy who else donated. "Oh, no honey, those are both hers." "What?!" said the other lady. "Holy sh*t!!"
Yes, woman I do not know. Holy sh*t. But there are three certainties about life: death, taxes, and the hair will grow back.
