A few months ago, a woman said to me: "You have great hair....but you must get that a lot." I didn't know how to respond. Yes? No? Thanks? I probably defaulted to my usual: "Oh. Haha. No, not really.... I've just not washed it in a while." Awkward, unnecessarily self-deprecating over-sharing? Yep. Sounds about right. The truth is, I love my hair. It's unruly, yeah. And it took me until well into my 20s to learn how to live with it. Before that, I basically tortured it: Black. Pink. Platinum. Spiked. Gelled. Scrunched. At one point it broke off at the roots and drifted to the ground. Another time, I let a stylist bleach it until my scalp blistered. In middle school, I discovered hairspray and...it did not go well. I was teased—to my face and not to my face, good-naturedly and not so good-naturedly. I remember getting a haircut in the 8th grade and a female teacher telling me it looked "SO much better." Not good. Not pretty. Not even a banal nice. Just SO much better than it was. Ahhhh the things you carry with you to adulthood. At my first job, I stood awkwardly behind the counter of our local drugstore, a deer in the headlights of relentless pubescent mortification: "You could be so pretty if you didn't wear your hair like that," said the total stranger, her face collapsing into genuine sadness. Yes? No? Thanks? My relationship with my hair has progressed similarly to my relationship with my feminine self. It's been a rocky, wary journey, on a road paved with distrust. And along the way, so many well-meaning women have given me terrible, unsolicited directions: "When are you going to get rid of that lesbian haircut? You could be so pretty...." "God, I HATE when someone has good hair, but they don't know how to style it." "Here. Let me fix it for you." "Let me fix it for you." "Let me fix it." Ultimately, no one fixed it for me. I just grew into it, embraced its unruliness, and our relationship relaxed. Every inch of us contains these lessons. xo

robinmayさん(@robinmay)が投稿した動画 -

Robin May Flemingのインスタグラム(robinmay) - 9月16日 08時29分


A few months ago, a woman said to me: "You have great hair....but you must get that a lot." I didn't know how to respond. Yes? No? Thanks?
I probably defaulted to my usual: "Oh. Haha. No, not really.... I've just not washed it in a while."
Awkward, unnecessarily self-deprecating over-sharing? Yep. Sounds about right.
The truth is, I love my hair. It's unruly, yeah. And it took me until well into my 20s to learn how to live with it. Before that, I basically tortured it:
Black. Pink. Platinum.
Spiked. Gelled. Scrunched.
At one point it broke off at the roots and drifted to the ground. Another time, I let a stylist bleach it until my scalp blistered.
In middle school, I discovered hairspray and...it did not go well. I was teased—to my face and not to my face, good-naturedly and not so good-naturedly. I remember getting a haircut in the 8th grade and a female teacher telling me it looked "SO much better." Not good. Not pretty. Not even a banal nice. Just SO much better than it was.
Ahhhh the things you carry with you to adulthood.
At my first job, I stood awkwardly behind the counter of our local drugstore, a deer in the headlights of relentless pubescent mortification:
"You could be so pretty if you didn't wear your hair like that," said the total stranger, her face collapsing into genuine sadness.
Yes? No? Thanks?
My relationship with my hair has progressed similarly to my relationship with my feminine self. It's been a rocky, wary journey, on a road paved with distrust. And along the way, so many well-meaning women have given me terrible, unsolicited directions:
"When are you going to get rid of that lesbian haircut? You could be so pretty...."
"God, I HATE when someone has good hair, but they don't know how to style it."
"Here. Let me fix it for you."
"Let me fix it for you."
"Let me fix it."
Ultimately, no one fixed it for me. I just grew into it, embraced its unruliness, and our relationship relaxed. Every inch of us contains these lessons. xo


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