I am at home.Standing in the bathroom.

The door to the bedroom is locked.

I almost locked the bathroom door too when I realized that she left her eye drops, but I have a keen sense of hearing and she barrels up the stairs.

I feel safe.

So I take it off and my reflection is Pennywise the Clown (How could I not make a King reference? ),except I have 4C hair.

At least I think so.

Natural hair wasn’t popular when I started losing mine, so I might be a little off as far as the classifications go.

I notice there is a little growth along the hairline and attribute it to my short-lived affair with Kombucha, because how else could my hair possibly grow with an elastic band and two stocking caps choking it like a mobster in the back seat day in and day out?

It is hair change day, which is also hair wash day.

Which occurs about every two months.

Before you judge me-wait, I don’t care if you judge me.

Only people like me know the struggle.

I tried to explain this to my wife this morning.

In all her infinite wisdom, she couldn’t understand.

And that’s okay.

Most people don’t.

She told me to stop being sad, grab the problem by the balls and do something about my hair.

Did I mention that if she cuts her hair at 8:00pm tonight, it will be back by 10:00am and that I have been waiting for a bald spot to grow back for about 7 years?

Anyway, instead of crying through the drill sergeant-esque lecture, I held the tears back, sniffed the snot back into my throat and screamed SHUT UP deep in the confines of my mind.

I love her.

She’s my best friend.

But she doesn’t get it.

Chad says I’m “bad as fuck,” regardless.

I believe him.

But I would kill to be able to have a high bun on a day I’m feeling especially chic.

While I dump globs of conditioner into my palms and hope like hell the comb doesn’t break again, I smile.

Because the hair that I have left is beautiful.

It curls up and bounces around while I bend down to pick up my fallen coils that litter the mat like dead soldiers.

I just keep thinking that I would look so much better without a wig.

I can’t wait for the day my hair miraculously grows back even though I only wash it each time I have to change my hairstyle.

I know the day will come when I snatch my unit off and there’s hair in the middle of my head!

What a day!

I’ve been praying about it.

I hadn’t before.

Surely Jah has bigger fish to fry.

Restavek and Barrel children have to be farther up in priority.

I promised God that if he let me grow about two inches of hair all around, that I would never put glue in it again.

And I mean it.

Water to wine,

Bald to flourishing.

I know that it can be done.

Until then, I suppose I will wash the conditioner out of my hair, comb it, and hide it under some Indian lady’s locks.

See you in a couple months, Pennywise.