Christmas Weave

Up to this year I could sort of get away with saying I was 37 but I’ve visibly aged. Now all I see in the mirror are my origami cheeks, a forehead with deeper cracks than the GOP, and a neck that a turkey would reject.

Worse, my once thick and lustrous hair is thinning.

I’m dying to have long shiny hair extensions like Kate Beckinsale but they cost $600 upwards, and take hours to attach. I can barely afford a scrunchie from CVS, so it’s not going to happen. Also, I’d rather visit the dentist than the hairdresser, after one over-enthusiastic, under-talented stylist dyed my hair ginger back in 96.

So Santa, you hirsute nonagenarian, bring me hair this Christmas.

Nip down Kate Beckinsale’s chimney, give her buzz cut and hand me her locks – she can afford more. (That’s the Christmas spirit Spinny – ed).

I want to feel the bounce of my curls against my back again, soak up the admiring glances of women, and use it to bed men.

Mostly the latter. My friends used to tell me how much they envied my hair. Men loved it. Tumbling curls are sexy. Empowering, even.

So bring me my weave on this Christmas Eve, and make this lady happy.

*flounces off, flicks hair, hair goes meh*

Spinny out.




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