My hair is getting long. Not long to you, mind, but it's long to me. It would brush the very tops of my shoulders if it strained hard enough, like a child at the doctor's office trying to be taller than he is.
And then there are the ponytails of the world. The ponytails are those smiling, humouring nurses that just put their clipboard on top of the child's head and tell him to stand with his heels against the wall.
Ponytails are the bane of my existence. They prove that my hair is not as long as it thinks it should be.
But it's still that pretty shade of copper, and that's what's important.