Well, I got my wish. I currently own a Rocky Mountain Horse and a Morgan, two breeds that are largely known for their tumbling tresses. My Rocky gelding has silky, flaxen hair that does a fine job of repelling flies and attracting mud, and my Morgan’s hair is just out of control. It’s like someone keeps slipping Miracle-Gro into his morning grain. And the funny part is that when I bought Onyx five years ago, he was embarrassingly lacking in the mane department.
One of the more common “quick” fixes is the French braid, which I tried with varying degrees of success.
I didn’t want any awkward-looking tendrils during my dressage test, so I finally put on my big girl pants, borrowed a friend’s pulling comb and thinning shears, and took one last longing glance at Onyx’s long, flowing mane, the stuff that fantasies are made of.
After Onyx’s first Sweeney Todd treatment, I found myself standing ankle-deep in a pile of ebony hair. I looked like I had killed a small animal. Onyx, on the other hand, was starting to look a little more like a sport horse and less like a woolly mammoth. His mane was still too thick to lie flat on his neck, but at least it was more under control. I could always pull more later.
Wait… what? Did I just think to myself that I could always pull more later? What had I become?
A proud mama, that’s what. A proud mama who could now choose whether or not to grab mane over a jump.