Chop chop!

Once upon a time, a girl walked into a hair salon and said “do whatever you want with my hair, I’m sick of it!”. Her fabulous stylist told her he had the same shirt she was wearing and squealed with delight as he sharpened his shears.

“You have the perfect cheekbones for a fringe. How does that sound?” he said, running his hands through her hair eagerly.

“Sounds great,” the girl said.

Fourty minutes later this is what the girl’s head looked like.

When she took off the little cape they made her wear, the fabulous sytlist was surprised to see that the girl’s chest and neck were covered in hives.

“Oh my god, where you nervous, honey?” he asked, concerned more for her complexion than her emotional state.

“Just a little,” the girl said. Her throat was dry.

The girl paid and walked outside, feeling more confident with each step. She was only feet from the salon when a gust of wind came out of nowhere and attacked her directly in the face. Her brand new fringe didn’t stand a chance. She found her reflection in the glass of a storefront, and sure enough, there was her fringe… standing straight up. She smoothed it down and within seconds the wind had blown it all over the place again.

So with her fringe standing at attention and hives spreading across her jawbone she laughed aloud as she walked back to her apartment.

Of course, she thought to herself, of course.

Accepting the Tuft

Not everyone is lucky enough to walk around with a relic from their childhood on their head. I am one of the chosen few — one of the baby hair afflicted.

For those of you who aren’t familiar with the phenomenon that is baby hair, don’t worry because it’s not complicated, just weird.

When I was a bouncy little cherub child I had a head full of strawberry-blond ringlets. At some point, however, my cuteness allotment was exceeded and awkwardness and adolescence set in. Around this time my hair began to grow in dirty blond and straight.

That is, all except for a few random clumps of hair around my hairline which refused to change. These rogue follicle factions became part of my adult mane looking just like they did when they were 4 feet closer to the ground.

I would say for the most part I have been able to incorporate my baby hairs into the rest of my grown-up hairs pretty effectively. (Save for particularly humid days or the rare moments where I find myself doing physical activity).

That is until recently, when one particular tuft of baby hair revolted just in time for my shaky transition into pseudo-adulthood. This aggressive chunk of hair has become impervious to gels, hairspray and flat ironing. Ladies and gentlemen, this tuft if here to stay.

Meet the tuft:

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I have to say when my tuft first came out of the closet I was pretty embarrassed. I mean who has to fight with a ringlet every morning? I have been late for work because of this tuft! I have straight hair, I am not equipped to fight this kind of foe.

For almost two months now I have been fighting a hard war against it. But it has proven it’s strength, and I know when it is time to back down.

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So I am beginning a new stage of my life with a big curly q sticking out of my head. I swear sometimes I feel like it’s the first thing to enter the office in the morning.

“Don’t worry about the door, my tuft will get it”.

But I think I’m starting to like it — now that we have agreed to share my scalp in peace. It’s kind of funny. I mean I can’t take myself too seriously with this little wiggle in the corner of my vision all day.

I like to think it’s a little bit of my personality sticking out. Or at least that’s what I tell myself when I wake up next to it every morning — with it looking back at me as perky as ever.

I think it’s my hair’s way of telling me that I shouldn’t grow up.

I agree tuft, I really do.