Can You Hair Me Now…

I feel as if I am in a weather cult.

I am never in New York during the summer, but with my Hips Don’t Lie seasonal theme song, I am a devout meteorological follower.

Humidity is my trump, a constant hideous state of offensive being, which is infiltrating and controlling my days.

Venturing outside is a curse.

I have drunk the Kool-Aid and being led by my hair’s adversity to frizz I am self-confined in my air conditioned apartment.

I open the front door and commence sweating.

Last week I watched tennis pros wheeze, sweat and gasp so I stayed shut in,

Monday, I ventured out and almost became a sidewalk casualty.

Bacteria and viruses take hold in humid conditions and that’s in addition to the crazies on the street and in the subways.

The bacteria and viruses (along with the politicians) that cause illness thrive and grow in air that’s above 60 percent relative humidity.

Who knew high levels of water vapor could drown our spirits.

I am following Fani Willis’ lead and staying sequestered like the due diligence Grand Jury.

The powers that be heard my lament and freed me yesterday to stroll through Central Park, cane in hand, and allowed me to breathe relativity fresh air, but the environment was still doused with frizzability.

This morning it is raining and my hair was actually frizzing while I slept if my bathroom mirror is reflecting my true image at 4:30am.

Is it possible to organize a cult that bands together against humidity and blindly follows an arid leader…perhaps the hairdressers union would be willing supporters.

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