I had a terrifying dream last night. It was a nightmare, in fact.
Against my own dreamy will, I decided to cut my hair. It was a disaster. I looked exactly like I did my senior year of high school, which is nothing I want to repeat in this lifetime.
As soon as I cut it, my eyes started gushing like a flood zone in Moorhead. Even before I cut the first strand, I started crying. My subconscious self must have been reminding me how dreary I look with flat, short hair.
The entire duration of my dream, I wept. These were not your usual tears. No. These were tears of defeat; tears of guilt; tears of complete and utter regret, remorse and every other sad word beginning with the letter R. I think I even “r”epented to God for cutting my hair, like a modern-day Samsonite with a more womanly figure.
In my state of sleepy sadness, I would think to myself, “This is just a dream.” Then, I’d “wake up” in my dream, only to find that the horridity (new word) of it all was a reality. Then, I’d cry some more.
As I’m sure you’ve guessed, I did eventually wake up from this nightmare in a groggy, terrified state of mind and immediately had to grab my hair to make sure it was still there — messy, tangled and long.
I had other nightmares throughout the night, but we won’t delve into those horror stories. I promise, they weren’t ghoulish tales about trimming my nails or going to work without makeup on. They were loads worse, but not nearly as bad as chopping my rope-ish hair off.