Don’t Touch My Hair

I recently found myself in a car, on a date with this guy. There I was, minding my own business, when all of a sudden my spider senses started tingling. They were off the charts! I looked to my right…then to my left. And there it was.

I saw his hand slowly making its way towards my hair.

I thought the crazed look on my face would be enough to abate his advances.
Nope!
In just a few seconds, his hand was rummaging through all 26 inches of my hair. I lifted one eyebrow (as best I could) and gave him the “are you nuts?” stare. He says, “What? I like it!”
And before I knew it, he had worked his hand all the way up the length of my hair to my roots (aka the tracks of my hair extensions).

*nuclear*

I must have smacked his hand away so fast! Curiosity almost snatched up ALL nine of this cat’s lives. And he was amused by all of this, while I sat there giving him the blankest stare of the millennium!

PS-mothafriggin-A!

Don’t touch my hair!
I can’t speak for all women, but I can surely speak for this chick right here *points to self*. I don’t like when men place their hands in the vicinity of my hair, ESPECIALLY when they show up to the party without an invitation. Access denied…without hesitation. I mean, I can’t be responsible for what you find when you stick your hands into forbidden territory! This guy got a first class ticket to hair extensions-ville. Some may find themselves in clip-ins-ville or worse lacefront-ville! You just never know!

So gentlemen, do me a favor and “hide your wife. Hide Your kids,” because I take NO prisoners when it comes to my hair.

Misplaced frolicking fingers will get cut!

Am I alone on this one?!

photo credit: x-ray delta one via photopin cc