I guess it’s time. I never really knew how it was going to end. I never do. At least I understand my tendancy to weirdness more than I ever did  thanks to the education I recieved daily on ztikTok and Instagram.

Previously, I didn’t have a name for it. Labels do help people like me at least understand that some of the unexplained mysteries in behaviour are just a part of the way the universe made me. I’ve always been fascinated with observing instinct in animals and humans. Watching ants do things is as fascinating as watching people. Knowing my brain has autism just makes at least a tiny bit more sense when I’m evaluating some quirk I have been motivated to follow.

In this case  I’m talking about my hair. I’ve kept the secret out of my blog for the most part because it is even more odd than many of my compulsions and the level of gross is off even my charts of odd.

It just happened organically, or more accurately, it just didn’t happen. I started a streak that I just kept going because nobody seemed hto notice, or at least nobody seemed to mind enough to comment.

I attribute a small portion of the blame on the fact that the West coast crystal meth is different than the east. I couldn’t have come such a streak of this kind in Ontario. That’s where the notion started.

When I was living under house rules in Niagara Falls, there was no shower or washing machine. For three years, I washed my clothes only a handful of times and had a bath around once a month. Because I had no access to a car the entire time, I became a stinky hermit. The meth use contributed to aroma when mixed with year old dirty clothes. The smell was bad enough that I notice it too.  Humans generally get nose blindness to their own fragrances but the extra hot oven like tempature in my bedroom where I slept on year old dirty bedsheets that would be soaking wet when I woke up was impossible to miss.

That is the home I ran away from to come out west, where I have easy access to keep myself showered and in clean clothes and fresh bedding. For a while, I did. But gradually I stoppedall of those routines that are typical standards of life to others. I change my bedding far less than most would find acceptable.

I wear the same clothes longer than I should and have many orange shirts so that even when I wear a new one, it is the same às my old one. I should be far too ashamed to tell you how long I’ve been wearing these socks for, 24/7 without change.

I showered once in the last year, but not one person in my life has mentioned it. Not one nasty face or groan or any hint that they’ve noticed. I think the meth is different but also I do not sweat here. My medication dehydrated me and the bedroom is a nice tempature all year long. It enables me to not care. Discovering I am autistic has enabled me to use it as an excuse for this behaviour.

I have OCD controlled with medication but I still can’t break a streak. I collect things. Once I notice any pattern, it becomes a game and winning means one more day of doing it or not doing it. Then one day, the environment changes somehow and I justcstop caring. It was hard to leave behind my 30 pound collection of Hershey’s kiss wrappers but I did. It will be harder to break mybvstreak of not washing my hair because the effort of washing my hair is a tedious task it was nice to avoid.

But it’s time. Officially I feel obligated to wait till Christmas because the story is better if I make it a year but technically I cave mid August and showered so the date is less significant.

My brain is giving me signs. Two reveals and multiple dreams. My five year long drives licence photo was without my hat on. People saw me. A second heads with of matted hair on the side. Embarassing without the story. It’s grown under this hat for so long, my head is lumpy.

I’ve had dreams. What wouldI do if eposed? I feel like a superhero walking around with cacsecret identity that could be exposed any time something takes my hat. I’d turn into elephant man  look away! Look away.

So it’s time but I have no idea what to do with the clumps and matted piles. I’ll have to chop them off with scissors and I’ll look even more like a crazy monster with clumps missing.

So I don’t think about it, and the streak continues. My fallback philosophy kicks in. Anything that feels like it will be a negative experience will be a negative experience today or tomorrow so put it over my wall of tomorrow. If I ignore it another day, it might go away. I might die without dealing.

That wall of tomorrow is bulging pretty bad these days and itscacracfe to see who cracks and breaks down first… Or simultaneously but I will admit. Living without worry or negativity has been ok. I’m content to be a little crazy. Not rich enough to be eccentric, but autistic is a nice blanket to live under. It just needs laundry once in a while.