Happens every time, of course — I decide it sounds like a good idea to have a baby, I get this head full of hair that I can barely get a comb through, I have said baby, and then four months later all my hair falls out all over everything in my house.
I find it on the dog and the baby, on Audra and sometimes I discover hair on toys or inside the pages of a book. I sweep the floor and discover hair. I don't even look in the bathtub after I shower anymore.
Sometimes I rake a hand back through my hair, intending just to get it out of my eyes, and discover twenty-two individuals hairs just floated away with my fingers.
Yes, it was twenty-two.
Just when I start to wonder if I'm really still losing postpartum hair or if I'm actually going totally bald from stress and the aftermath of explaining to Audra for the eighth time why she can't eat the dog's food, no not even "just one bit", the rate of loss begins to slow.
After a while — a month or so — things seem finally to settle.
Oh, sure, huge chunks of that luxurious fast-growing pregnancy hair are gone for good, but what's left...
What remains on my head sticks out all over the place. It seems to have somehow learned how to work together to spite my comb. It defies me.
It curls up at the ends in weird places but is stick-straight in others. It seems... coarser. It rejects shampoo. It's mean to me. Like all the naive and innocent hair was lost and all that's left is the cynical hair that's seen some things and lived to tell the tale.
It's like all the good hair got to the seventy-fifth time we watched the same episode of Bubble Guppies and it just. couldn't. do it. again and peaced out and left me with the grizzled old hair that just grits its teeth and mumbles something about how you couldn't possibly get milk from a cow that's also a fish and settles in for the long haul.
What's left is the survivor at the end of a zombie film — damaged by the senseless horde that has overtaken the world but refusing to give up and admit defeat.
My hair stands strong.
It does not give up.
It does not surrender.
It badly needs a haircut and a drink.
At this rate, I've become a bit concerned that my hair will be stronger than the stylist's scissors.