For me that number of months is up and I am moulting. Big Time! Each bath or shower sees me pulling handfuls of hair out and the plug holes resembling bird's nests. Brushing my hair leaves clumps in my hairbrush big enough to keep the collective casts of TOWIE, Scousewives and Geordie Shore in hair extensions for a year.
|1980s Rat's Tale or Bobby Charlton Comb-over, I can supply it!|
My discarded hair is covering every surface in my home and every item of clothing worn by anyone who comes within a mile's radius of me. It is an unwelcome ingredient in every meal from breakfast cereal to a late night mug of hot chocolate. It ends up wound around Amber's dummies, stuck bizarrely in her neck folds and even manages to get wedged between my ample buttocks. I swear I saw one of t'husband's fish cough up a hairball the other day. It is everywhere!
This abundance of escaped hair is made worse by the fact that my hair is fairly long, much longer than I would prefer to wear it but I have yet in 8 years of living here plucked up the courage to go to a local hairdressers (if you saw the barnets on the women who live in the village you would understand why). The weather isn't helping much either as the continual use of the air-con has made for a very static atmosphere—cue foot long air-borne mousey-red hair floating up to the ceiling and hanging down like staglimites (or is it staglitites?) in a cave.
I can't remember how long I had to endure this affliction after giving birth to Joseph, I'm hoping it wasn't for too long as I'm getting concerned that I'll start to develop bald patches, not to mention being pissed off with having to vacuum so often.
Oh, and just to add insult to injury, not one single hair that has voluntarily fallen out of my head has been a sodding grey one! Now if only the pounds of fat were so keen to drop...