Hair

It started last Friday. I ran my fingers through my wet hair, and they came out wound around with clingy strands. The bath was layered with long black hairs. The plug hole was completely blocked by a golf ball wad of hair. The babies are covered in them. They tug at me when they feed and my hair pulls out and gets caught in their hands, like horrible lengths of cheese wire. I even changed Twin One’s nappy the other day and found a hair amongst her poo. Finally, as I had been warned, as I had been told and chose not to believe, my joyful lustrous lush of pregnancy hair growth has come to an end. Finally, it is falling out.

Oh, this is sad. I loved having extra hair. When I was young I had long spirally hair and people would stop and tell me how lovely it was. And as I got older it got shorter, and splitter, and more and more frizzy until, by the time I got pregnant, age and bad haircuts had made it into one gigantic ball of wire. Until, three months gestation, when the hormones fully kicked in and my fingernails started to grow and my hair became shiny and long and thick and curly and people said to me, but my, Katty, your hair looks wonderful and for a brief while I was able to think it would last forever.

And more so, sad, because the hair falling out is another sign of the hormone changes, of my body (besides the paunch) returning back to normal. And it’s sad to say goodbye to this special state. Other than the breast feeding, my body is coming back to me. Indeed, for the first time three days ago, I was startled to find myself thinking about sex. For the first time in ages and ages. Down There has been all about babies, and piles, and pelvic floors, and basically best avoided, but suddenly it’s been given back to me, I remember it has another function (although sadly, of course, I have no one to practice that function with).