The above is essentially how the most recent conversation with the general physician went, as have many others before it with other doctors who cautioned me to limit a particular physical activity before I made matters worse.
The physical activity I’m supposed to limit this time is combing my hair, because my fingers aren’t staying in the joints at their base when I do.
That means shorter hair, which means still less of me being me, as if being 20 pounds underweight wasn’t enough less-ness.
Not giving in and going short-short, not without a fight. I thinned handfuls out with special shears, and that didn’t work. I switched shampoos and conditioners – twice – and that didn’t work. Next I’ll try having a pro three or four inches off and throw a perm into it. If that doesn’t work, I’ll “frost” it, which will thin a lot of strands. If that doesn’t work, I’ll lighten all of it, and thin every strand.
I like being recognizable to myself by some feature when I pass by a mirror somewhere (I don’t have any hanging in the house). My long hair was serving that purpose.
And I am of THAT generation. You know the one. If I have to lose it, will I get over it? Absolutely. And maybe I’ll even feel better because, for once, I’ve bitched at length about a loss in progress.