Molting.

The seasons, they are a changing. I know this for several reasons:

• First, it is getting darker earlier…and that is lame. I hate feeling like it is bedtime at 6:30.
• Second, it is staying dark longer…how am I supposed to find my socks in the pitch black of 6 am?
• Third…I am shedding like a sheep dog.

There is possibly nothing worse. Boys don’t get it…they freak out about the few little hairs on the bathroom floor, on the pillow or in the sink. Amateurs! I am talking about enough hair falling out of my head on a daily basis to spin the yarn for small child’s sweater. GROSS, I know!

I sit, talking to coworkers, and casually laugh and run my fingers through my hair…snag…and my fist pulls out a chunk of detached strands…I nonchalantly throw it on the floor as coworker look on in horror.

I stand, trying to find the phantom hair that is tickling the back of my arm, with a wild look in my eyes like I am trying to catch the purple elephants flying around my head.

I hopelessly lint roll my fleeces trying to remove the hairs that have woven themselves into the fabric of my wardrobe.

So…yeah…too much information?