My hair, my effing hair. A bastard creature whose goal in life is to torture and humiliate me, to slam me down to the abyss of self loathing. The beast is happiest and liveliest when a visual recorder is being pointed to its direction. Aware that its present state is going to be immortalized, it is quick in action, doing one of its 101 complicated dance moves with the sole aim to become as unruly and hideous as possible, just in time before the click click click sound is traversing to my eardrums. Any hair product won't do, it is practically immunized from all these self-claimed beast tamer products available on earth. Every picture of me is a sad testament of how I have lost another battle with the monster nesting on top of my head. Oh well, everyone has his own yoke to bear. I'll just have to accept the fact that mine has chosen to locate itself at a strategic spot ... with prime visibility.
P.S: Yes, I am exaggerating. Of course I don't hate myself or my hair ... much.
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