Last night, while sitting on my bed reading archived posts on Steam Me Up, Kid — which is as funny as Hyperbole and a Half, but I’ve already read all of those — I felt my shoulder and realized, much to my dismay, that a hair of significant width and length was growing there.
I went through an experience similar to that recognized when recovering from grief.
1) Shock and denial: It’s not my hair. It’s someone else’s hair, and that person has cleverly transplanted this Franken-hair onto my shoulder in an effort to screw with me. Not this time, mysterious hair transplanter!
2) Pain and guilt: It’s all my fault this hair is growing out of my shoulder. I should have started shaving my shoulders years ago when I started shaving my legs. Ugh! I can’t tolerate this pain!
3) Anger and bargaining: This is ridiculous! The thought of a hair like this growing out of a beautiful, blossoming flower such as I … well, it’s just infuriating! I’m going to have a talk with the Big Guy to see if we can come to some sort of an agreement. God … you there? It’s Kristina. If you take me back in time to a place where there isn’t a long, disgusting hair growing out of my arm, I’ll donate Mr. Peabody to a family who needs a little poodle to pee on their carpet.
4) Depression, reflection, loneliness: Alright, if God isn’t going to take a poodle in exchange for my right to bare arms/shoulders, then I just don’t know what to do. What a desolate place, this! If only life were fair, and my parents weren’t so cruel, and all those kids didn’t pick on me at school all the time, and my teachers would cut me some slack, and that boy in art class would notice me, and — wait … that’s my high school depression. Sorry about that. Anywho, I’m all depressed and realizing the true magnitude of my discovery of that hair and stuff.
5) The upward turn: Hey, you know what? Maybe this isn’t all as bad as it seems. Maybe my equating finding this hair to the death of my first dog is going a bit overboard.
6) Reconstruction and working through: There’s a way through this, but it won’t be easy. I just have to push through the pain and understand that life goes on after the discovery of a 1/2 inch, dark brown hair on my shoulder.
7) Acceptance and hope: This isn’t so bad. All I have to do is avoid sleeveless shirts for the rest of my life, and if all else fails, I can just bleach that hair to make it less noticeable. You know what? I think I overreacted a bit up there. For once, I can just accept that this is how God made me, and He made me Italian, and if that means I get random hairs on my shoulders every once in a while, then so be it.
Actually, I’m not okay with it. I plucked the bastard. But that’s just life. I wonder what stages the hair went through when it realized it wasn’t going to exist anymore?