He runs his fingers through my hair, and my heart sinks.
This will not end well.
Inevitably, his hand will get stuck in a knot that’s caused by too much Extra Hold Curl Gel No. 9, or too little Anti-Humidity Frizz Spray No. 4.
We’ll laugh, but secretly we’re both aware of the situation’s severity. He knows this would never happen if he was dating a Kardashian.
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I, meanwhile, wonder if I can ask him to pitch in for the extra tube of detangler I’ll need tomorrow morning.
Chris Rock’s recent documentary, “Good Hair,” has prompted all sorts of people to detail the trials and tribulations of their tresses.
Newsweek even lured online readers with a Good Hair Week packed with follicle factoids, including a former male hair model’s memoir.
Here is my story: My hair doesn’t want me to date.
We’ve never formally had the conversation, but ample evidence proves my case.
I was born with magically expanding frizzy locks that seem to defy nature by growing horizontally, rather than vertically.
You have permission to call me a miniskirt-clad Cousin It.
Shortly after learning I couldn’t fulfill the “please run your fingers through my hair” ideal, I realized I was destined to fail another romantic fantasy:
The vision of a sexy vixen who releases her hair clip and instantly shakes her long locks around her head.
Believe me, I’ve tried.
But the seamless maneuver quickly transforms into a complicated exercise in knot removal – and mood-killing strategies.
Turns out “just stay here while I get the scissors” isn’t a popular seduction line after all.
Then, there are the daily relationship inconveniences my hair causes.
Like when I comfortably cuddle against a date’s face, only to suffocate him with the weight of my tresses.
Or how my constant insistence on mirroring straight-hair styles always lands me a title as the late one in a relationship.
On the plus side, animals really enjoy my thick, knotted locks.
This makes for a really special moment when a date’s cat starts licking the excess gel from my hair.
Nothing screams desirability like being devoured by a four-legged creature who eats his own vomit.
So yes, a part of me longs to experience love scenes where the hero runs his fingers through the heroine’s hair without worrying he’ll find a bird’s nest in the process.
Then again, I’m also kind of grateful.
My hair — the same feature I’ve accused of romantic sabotage — is also the thing that’s inspired unlikely conversations with random strangers, some of whom actually live somewhere other than their mom’s basement.
Most importantly, my stubborn locks have taught me it’s OK to be an outtake in a relationship world driven by picturesque moments. And with that lesson under my belt, I can tackle love’s real tangles.