Once a ponytail sinks its claws deep into your mind, there’s no going back. I know this from personal experience. My pony rides me like a rented mule. Brushing, styling, product… and there’s no end in sight. Oh my… I can feel it bouncing around the back of my neck right now. It wants—it needs me to do something. Something that involves leg shaving, a pair of off-black stay-up stockings, and a black pencil skirt with side darts. God help me!
P.S. Upon reflection (literally and figuratively), I found a better match for my own ponytail. And for some weird reason, I consider that important enough to post a caption here to correct the impression of strangers on the Internet. Go figure.
P.P.S. Inexplicably, when I posted this item, I neglected to include a link to the previous caption in this “series” (assuming it actually becomes a series, which remains to be seen). “Ponytails Rule” was posted last August and introduced a world in which a ponytail is somehow capable of controlling its male mount (think: horse) so as to get what it wants—which would be, of course, a fully feminine body to ride. What the tail wants, the tail gets!