I think this started when I was a baby. My mom would massage my head to get my hair to grow.
Thirteen years later, it finally did.
Then in grade school, [black] girls had some obsession with braiding my hair during story time.
ohmygoodnessitfeltsogood
It didn't even matter that they had created this microscopic braid that the center of my scalp that took forever to comb out later on. They had completely put my head in this massage-y, tingly nirvana while the teacher read to us.
Maybe that's why I like stories so much, too.
*wink to self and to blog*
I like to think of myself as a superhero.
My superpower is invisibility...to cashiers at fast food restaurants.
My weakness is...people touching my hair.
Brush/comb/blow-dry/touch/fondle/braid/massage my hair, and I become absolute putty.
So when Mike and I go get haircuts, it puts me in a really good mood.
It's a like a massage but way cheaper. Sometimes when they're done and they ask me if it looks okay, I tell them to make it a little shorter not because I really want it that length, but because I just don't want them to stop touching my hair.
True story.
Today, my hairdresser asked me where my husband works.
I didn't even correct her.
A phamily foto:
When I'm there, I'm Allie H.
And I am awesome.
Ka-chow,
TWS
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