I am at the mercy of my hair.
Y’all just don’t even know.
Or maybe you do.
My son posted this the other day. Reminding me that we have a Spartan Super on Saturday.
And not just because it caused some of my female friends to use words like “hot” and “body” about my children. My babies. My little baby boys.
But mostly because I am not ready.
Here’s how I look during Spartan.
That chick ain’t ready. She’s just trying to make it over the fire. She’s got significantly more weight to carry over obstacles now. And she hasn’t even been practicing her burpees.
During our crawl up the Elevator Shaft while the earth was burning, Rogue and Tiny Brazilian reminded me that Jarman’s Invitational Marathon is the week after Spartan.
I haven’t been training for a 30 miler…
I am so not ready.
And then they said more words like Spartan Beast. And Iron Mountain. And Ragnar. And…there is apparently a whole string of shit coming that I’m completely unprepared for.
Son of a-
I want to train. I do.
Rogue and I decided to try out a Punch class on Friday. Kickboxing sounded like something we needed. She’s missing her MMA gym or whatever she used to do and I’m missing my prison training.
The perfectly sculpted strength goddess that led the class took us through the most intense sweat fest I’ve experienced in quite sometime. And the strength you feel when you put on a pair of gloves and go to work on a bag is empowering.
But then strength goddess stands behind you and does this sort of evil excited laugh as she tells you “just 15 more seconds.”
Do you know how long 15 seconds is when you’re jabbing away at a bag?
But I did feel stronger afterwards.
Look at me training and shit.
But see, here’s what happened.
I got my hair did.
You know, right? Because I wrote a whole blog post about it.
And now I can’t train more than two days a week.
My fellow curly headed chicks understand.
See, when my hair was unmanageably long, all I had to do was pile it on top of my head and go about my day. I could go to Tiny Brazilian’s 5am HIIT Class, rinse off in the bathroom sink at work, throw on some deodorant and clean clothes, and go about my day.
Hell, once summer hit, I was maybe washing my hair once a week.
(Seriously. I’m super sexy, y’all.)
I cannot do that now.
Now I have to wash my hair after every workout. Every. Single. Workout.
Then be intentional about drying and maybe even styling it. Which takes a solid 30 minutes. Who in the fuck has 30 solid minutes?
And most of the time that’s gonna have to happen in the evening. Because after I straighten my hair, I have to sleep on it to let the pillow mash out the extra curl frizzy that I don’t have the skill or patience to work out with a flat iron myself. (My hair is hella stubborn.)
And then, the next morning, flat iron out the last of it.
And then smother it in enough hair spray to keep the actual air from ever making contact with it.
Hell, it took hairdresser Stephanie three hours to make this happen .
(There is your hair pic, people. I took that specifically for Re Re. Who requested it. And doesn’t judge my awkward selfie-ing. But hell. My awkwardity is no secret, so whatevs.)
But it was pretty that one time right there.
I can’t ever make that happen again on my own. I have to go through a whole process to get even mildly close.
So I have to choose between looking somewhat acceptable or getting stronger.
Aw hell. I’m probably gonna choose stronger.
My pride is way more dominant than my interest in attracting a mate.
But I just want y’all to understand why I’m gonna look the way I’m gonna look when you see me from now on.
This is why curly girls wanna be straight.