This morning, I woke up at the very last second– something I hate doing. Every morning I comfort myself into waking up later and later, I’m dissipating in self-discipline. I rushed through my toothbrush and through the shower like I do, took my vitamins over a scalding hot cup of tea I couldn’t finish due to time, and sped to work on the same hilly road damaging my easily piqued interest in the world. And, now, I’m here blogging– not a part of my job requirements.

I got a haircut yesterday afternoon after a very dirty two-mile run and a very intense sauna session. It was a great decision when it was all done with but I’m actually a bit traumatized now. I keep going back and forth about praising the cut-and-dry (literally haha) length and the fact that I’ll have to wait another few months before I get my comfort-zone length back. Hair care is really such a fickle thing. Wash too much and your hair is stripped; don’t wash enough and your split ends are back and here to stay! I detest haircuts because I always regret them. And then a fresh hairdo always impedes me from working out the next day because I let the image of twenty-five hard-earned dollars being ripped up or flushed down the drain be the imagery that is working out after getting my hair done. That’s how much a blow-out and a dusting typically cost if you were wondering what the relation was.

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