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Me and hair extensions: It’s complicated

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Don’t cut your long hair. You’ll regret it eventually. A while ago I found an extension seller on eBay and decided to buy thirty quid’s worth of human hair that an Asian girl probably had to sell because she’d ran out of internal organs she didn’t need. Me and my weave had a wonderful honeymoon period, but it’s really shocking how unobservant most guys are; no one seemed to notice that my hair grew and retreated on a daily basis.

Lots of good things come of having fake hair, like being able to twirl it round your finger to pass time, or literally being able to, “Pat your weave” when you’re listening to ‘Get Me Bodied’ by Beyoncé. But, there’s only so long before you’re too drunk to slap away someone’s hand when they reach to stroke your head, only to find your scalp riddled with metal clips.

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I thought that I’d reached the extension pits when my ex-boyfriend tore a clump of my fake hair from my head during sex and just said, “whoops”. I remember locking myself in his bathroom and refusing to come out because I’d found the entire thing so embarrassing.

But now I’m over that whole thing. Not because it wasn’t horrible, but because something about ten times more traumatic happened recently. A while ago a friend-slash-on-and-off romance of mine was visiting from France. Back at his hotel we were both pissed as hell and couldn’t decide if we wanted to fuck on the stairs or argue in the corridor. All the while there was probably a security guard wanking over the CCTV of me talking about my feelings with my tits out. A few harsh words were exchanged and I decided to leave. I was making my dramatic exit, practically humming ‘Independent Woman’ , when he shouted that I’d, “Forgotten sumsing.”

I turned round and he was sort of staring and pointing at the floor. I think I shamefully threw up a tiny bit in my mouth as he picked up a matted chunk of hair and held it out to me.

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It was OBVIOUSLY mine, there was no escaping it. But, in my drunken stupor, I decided that the situation was completely rectifiable, so I flat out denied any familiarity with the ratty bundle.  We exchanged a few confused glances before I snatched it from him and stuffed it into my handbag. I tried to make a joke about alopecia, but I don’t think he understood. Or maybe he did and just thought I was being serious. Long story short: just grow your fucking hair.

BILLIE JD

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