My hair is falling out. They warn you it is going to happen, but I just assumed it was one of those warnings that they have to legally tell you about, but it isn't really going to happen.
Oh, it's SO happening.
Every morning I comb my hair and handfuls of my luscious blonde locks detach themselves from my head and clamber on to the teeth of my wide tooth comb. If everything I read didn't assure me it wasn't going to be the case, I'd bet you a lot of money that I was going to be bald soon. Thankfully, however, that's not the case... or at least should not be the case.
I would like to think, should it come to the point where I do, indeed, go bald, that I'd be one of those women that looks bad ass doing so... like Sinead O'connor or GI Jane or Imperator Furiosa. But who knows? It's been, like, 45 years since I've rocked the chrome dome.
You know, there is a shit-ton of irony that comes along with weight loss surgery. You go through hell and high water to feel and look good and, just when you get to the point that you've dumped a ton of fat and are feeling really fucking awesome for the first time in forever, shit starts to go south. Like, literally, physically south. Your skin gets so loose that your abdomen jiggles for a full minute after a sneeze, your ass starts creeping down the back of your legs, and your form reverse stretchmarks that look like a hella-angry bear took a swipe at your tummy.
Any one of these would be enough, but combined? Oh, hella sexy, my snowflakes. Hella sexy.