Happens every time

I swear to you, it happens every time. I get my hair chopped off into a funky, fun, short cut ("kickin" is how it was most recently described, by a cow-orker), and then I yearn for long hair. Somehow, though, never my long hair. Never hair that's thicker-than-belief and unmanageable-- hair that's less like hair and more like some sort of feral animal. No, somehow I get this idea that my hair, long, resembles that of Kate Beckinsale or Liv Tyler: spectacularly glossy and impossibly tame, with that windswept-yet-not-tangled look. Once I've successfully deluded myself into thinking that I could have such a glorious mop on my head, I grow my hair out. And inevitably, I then remember why I cut it short in the first place, and the cycle repeats.