Certified Good Hair Tank Top
I was covered in mud and bruises. My right knee was starting to give out around mile 4. Barely a quarter of the way up the sandbag carry, flanking me on all sides were faces of collective despair, all posing the same question: why am I here? Crush my will, break my legs, shake my resolve... This Spartan Super was trying to defeat me.
I looked up to see a Spartan chick staring at me during her respite.
“You have good hair,” she said through a mask of grit and dry earth. She offered an encouraging fist pound which I gladly took and reciprocated. Spartans do such things.
Fatigue. Cuts. Scrapes. Faltering willpower. Add a grumbling stomach longing for some steak and potatoes. All I had left was good hair to carry me to the finish line.
It will have to do.
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