For those who don’t really know me, I have long red hair. And I’ve had long red hair for as long as I can remember. This isn’t because I am averse to getting it cut or changed or styled in some new way. It’s because I just don’t care. Five minutes with the brush and blow dryer is all I’m willing to put towards the stuff on a daily basis.
My daughter, on the other hand, LOVES my hair. She loves brushing it, petting it, trying to put it in new styles that she wants to see in her own long red hair. This morning, she was brushing it while I got ready.
“You know, when I brush your hair standing behind you like this, it’s like you’re a babysitter, or a teenager, or someone a lot younger than you really are.”
“No offense or anything. It’s just that I can’t see the little lines by your eyes when I stand behind …”
“R – stop talking.”
Another reason I don’t take time on my hair: avoiding unwanted critique from the always present peanut gallery.