Any pet owner will understand the frustration of dealing with the sheer volume of hair a pet sheds. My husband feels the same. All around the house are little twists of long, dark hair. They are mine. While I am spared the excess body/facial hair impact of PCOS, I do lose an awful lot of hair – besides the grey ones that get pulled out with malice aforethought.
Every hand stroke through my brunette locks results in stray hairs clinging to fingers and stuck in ring claws. Those hairs are gathered together, twisted and usually shoved in a pocket.
Not that I plan to knit a sweater with them or worry about voodoo or witchcraft practices raining down curses upon my head, but more so that it’s not polite, considerate nor friendly to chuck stray hairs, former members of the Crowning Glory Band, on someone else’s floor.
At home, it’s slightly different. Because I clean them up, and because it’s the pit in which I dwell, I – actually, no, it’s the cat’s hair honest; nope, not me; I’d rather lie until my foot drops off than admit this, and, um, well, er…..oh bollocks. It’s me.
I drop the hair into the log basket, the fire, the arm of the sofa, the shower walls, twisting the bundles of hair into little balls while trying to remember to complete their journey to the bin. That’s fine. That’s cool and dandy, IMHO. That’s controlled, deliberate behaviour.
What is not cool is the bagless vacuum cleaner turning up great wads of hair, only partially the soft, short, fine hairs of a long haired ginger cat. The rest of it is dark and long….and definitely human. How in God’s merry name did it get there?! Since the black cat died blaming it on him is futile. His lovely fur is buried at the bottom of the garden beneath a thick layer of earth infused with our grief and regret.
There’s the OCD to consider. It’s not strong but is a compulsion. Without knowing it’s happening I repeatedly and swiftly pull at the hair at the sides of my head, easy to do as it’s so long. This happens because I concentrate, and as I’ve been concentrating quite a lot for work these last few weeks, you can imagine how hairy my desk could become without regular cleaning.
It’s worse at the moment as the hairdresser decided that very thick hair (in fabulous condition no less, she says with a narcissistic head toss) is a nasty state of affairs and started to ‘thin’ the front sides before I could stop her. It’s a nasty, foul haircut and needs exorcising; it makes me feel like I have a disease which, ironically, and according to the NHS, I do.