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Доброго времени суток.

I have always had extremely thick hair. It’s not particularly unruly; there is just a lot of it. I am often asked by strangers on social media, friends who haven’t seen me in a while, and even once by my nine- year-old son if I got hair extensions. Nope. It’s just my hair.

Now, as an adult, I love my hair. And even as a kid, I loved it for the most part—except for that one time, right at the end of fourth grade when the movie Hook was a huge hit, and Julia Roberts had, as my mother claimed, “the cutest pixie haircut,” and she took me into the salon and had my hair all chopped off and I had to explain to random people at restaurants and the grocery store that I was, indeed, a girl.

***So there was that***. And, the only other time I hated my hair was when my mother brushed it. I don’t know what it was, but every time she put the brush to my hair, it felt like entering a torture chamber. She would brush, and I would flail my head backward and scream.

“I’m not even brushing hard!” she would say, barely keeping her cool, as I continued to flail and scream.

Спасибо.