I Fear My Hair Has Become Sentient

My mother used to cut both my sister's and mine own hair when we were elementary children, so that we looked like different sizes of the same doll, drawn to scale. My father put a stop to this when I was in seventh grade: he took me to the local Sam's Club, bought a Con Air Home Haircut Kit, and shaved my head. I've had that haircut ever since, and haven't paid for such a service since then, when our family would get touch-ups from a stylist who worked out of a defunct train caboose.

After shaving my head once more in May of last year, before I went to work for a summer camp, I let my hair grow for a good seven months before my mother made me do something about it. What I did was make a decision to do nothing: I pledged to her that I would not cut my hair until I had come back from Rome. In this regard, I would be much like Samson, and, I warned her, if I got off the plane carrying the jawbone of a donkey, people best get out of my perimeter, before I break some bread on a few fools, courtesy of my divine locks.

Now, two months before I once again cut my hair, I have lost all illusions. Long hair is insufferable. I have to shampoo everyday. Not only that, but many times I have to shampoo multiple times a day. How ludicrous does that sound? If you're not a girl, it should sound ludicrous enough.

I could harvest grease like maple syrup, bottle and save it for a later date, for what purpose I'm not positive on, but I could, so much grease does my hair produce. And I find that I perfer the greasy state of hair, because the alternative, a clean beautiful lion's mane, is impossible to control. With my hands in my pockets, I am constantly forced to perform what my sister calls the "Mississippi Boy Swoop," where I swing set my head from one side to the other, in order to get the hair out of my eyes (in my defense, I try to make this motion as awkward and graceless as possible, so that no one could accuse me of "Mississippi Boy Vanity").

So I lie awake at night, fearing that once I truly fall asleep my hair will form dreadlock tentacles and become nefarious, strangle me to death or attack my roommates or update Wikipedia with false information. Do you know what it's like, to fall asleep in fear, especially of your hair? But I still have the rest of March and April to live with this stock and the split ends (honestly, how do girls live?), before I return to home and friends who will, no doubt, briefly want to see what I look like when I wear a mullet.