I am possibly a Norse Goddess

There is a story in Norse Mythology where Loki cuts off the golden hair of Thor’s wife, Sif. This is almost exactly what happened to me, except as far as I know no Norse Gods were involved and technically Husby did the cutting, although it was my own fault. The end.

Edit: Apparently this needs further explanation, although I don’t see why.

You will be shocked by this but I was not naturally born with blonde hair and black beard. I know! I kept it a secret for a long time, because I figured out that it’s possible to dye just the roots. My good friend Kylie (not the famous one, and not the other famous one either) said – when I expressed slight concern – that it was muuuuuch easier than doing the entire mane. Piece of cake. And it was, until it was a kale cake all of a sudden, which I use as a perfect metaphor, because the only person in the world who wouldn’t understand what’s wrong with kale cake is Gwyneth Paltrow and I am positively certain she does not read my blog.

(If you do, Gwyneth, I am your biggest fan and you can sell strands of my golden hair, which is tragically no longer attached to my head, on your goopy website for $999. It’s organic and I steam-cleaned my vagina before it was cut.)

(Well, I steam-cleaned all vaginas I have. This sentence is not a lie.)

As we did many (five or so) times before, I sat on a bathroom chair proud in my manly nakedness, and Husby put the bleach-based dye on my roots, then neatly placed the rest of the hair on top of that and left me. I couldn’t remember how long I kept it on the last time, but I remembered something about 30 minutes from the leaflet – I’m not stupid, I don’t need to re-read the leaflet every single time, please. So I decided to give it 25 minutes, because roots don’t take that long, and I started casually browsing porn Tumblrs playing bridge on my phone.

Pro-tip: do not play bridge on your phone while bleaching your hair.

I considered checking on the hair in the mirror, but I was playing doubled six spades without the ace of spades, so those who understand the art of bridge will see how I had no time for unimportant things like that. Once I finished (one short), I went into the shower (as usual), washed my hair with the bleaching foamy substance (as usual), then pulled out two handfuls of hair from my head.

Not as usual.

The shower was clogged with my hair that fell out in addition to what I already pulled out – without any force and not in desperation at all. (Desperation arrived a few minutes earlier.) I finished the deed by putting on the super conditioning conditioner, then I rinsed my hair and lost more of it.

Technically, I assured myself, you always lose hair, and the longer it is the more you can see it, so this might be natural. I suppose you could say it was natural. As in “it’s natural for your hair to fall out when you leave Super Intensive Blonde in for too long and casually bro– I mean, play bridge on your phone”.

More came out when I brushed it. I examined the remains. It looked… thinner. But, I thought, if some hair fell out here and there right by the scalp, it won’t be too bad. My braid won’t be as thick, sure, but I’ll just live with that for a while. Unfortunately this was not what happened. Well, partly fortunately, I guess, because my hair follicles survived the assault. The hair broke off in random spots. And, very, very unfortunately some of those random spots were very near each other, giving me the look of demented Viking Einstein.

To be perfectly honest with you, I had a little blonde bush sticking out from the side of my head where apparently most of the hair broke, and the remaining hair was asymmetrical. My face is asymmetrical enough with the broken nose (boxing fight) (no, septum surgery gone wild) and droopy eyelid (height of fashion) (when Paris Hilton was still famous). I did not need asymmetrical hair and a tuft sticking out of it. So after sulking for a while I decided: we will shave it off.


Husby cut off the braid, then did the shaving. My golden hair, most probably as nice as Sif’s or even nicer, was in tatters. We kept the braid as memento – never again will I play bridge while Super Intensive Blonde is Super Intensively Murdering my hair. As for the rest? It will grow back. In about three years. It’s not so bad. I almost stopped jumping and screaming “someone broke into our house” every time I pass a mirror. And last night I fell asleep almost immediately after putting my stubbly head on the pillow, and by almost immediately I mean it took me two hours instead of four. Progress!

I’m going to publish this once I stopped sobbing long enough to update my Sim for the cover pic.


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