After my Autumn Stylewatch post, I promptly spilled coffee on the sleeve of my flattering new coat sooooooo…. I guess it’s a keeper! The good thing about the coat’s Obi-Wan Kenobi hood is that it has taken care of my misty-rain-bangs problem. However, do not be under the impression that my hair is looking good now.
I am currently living that episode of Seinfeld where the landlord installs new ‘low-flow’ shower heads in Jerry, Kramer, and Newman’s flats.
Lately, our shower has offered two options: scalding hot with water pressure or a lukewarm trickle that definitely would be classified as low-flow.
The result of this horrible state of affairs (not to be hyperbolic–that would be unlike me) is that I have weeks and weeks of built-up shampoo in my hair that I can’t wash out.
B keeps suggesting that I have a bath. A bath! As if a bath is an acceptable alternative to a robust shower.
WHHHHHHYYYYYYY?!??! My hair has become a greasy amalgamation of Jon Snow and Ross Poldark’s luscious locks.
If only I had the boyish good looks and badassery that typically accompany this hair style.
Or better yet, a proper flow of water to restore my abundant tresses to their fancy free former glory.
For now, the only solution is the Jon Snow Man Bun.
Winter (of my discontent) is (definitely) coming.
A Hemisphere in Your Hair
Long, long let me breathe the fragrance of your hair.
Let me plunge my face into it like a thirsty man into the water of a spring, and let me wave it like a
scented handkerchief to stir memories in the air.
If you only knew all that I see! all that I feel! all that I hear in your hair! My soul voyages on its
perfume as other men’s souls on music.
Your hair holds a whole dream of masts and sails; it holds seas whose monsoons waft me toward
lovely climes where space is bluer and more profound, where fruits and leaves and human skin
perfume the air.
In the ocean of your air I see a harbor teeming with melancholic songs, with lusty men of every
nation, and ships of every shape, whose elegant and intricate structures stand out against the
enormous sky, home of eternal heat.
In the caresses of your air I know again the languors of long hours lying on a couch in a fair ship’s
cabin, cradled by the harbor’s imperceptible swell, between pots of flowers and cooling water jars.
On the burning hearth of your hair I breathe in the fragrance of tobacco tinged with opium and
sugar ; in the night of your hair I see the sheen of the tropic’s blue infinity; on the shores of your
hair I get drunk with the smell of musk and tar and the oil of cocoanuts.
Long, long, let me bite your black and heavy tresses. When I gnaw your elastic and rebellious hair I
seem to be eating memories.
– Charles Baudelaire, 1862