I believe I am obsessed with my hair. Everyone has bad hair days. But, I have hair that puts me on the perpetual bad hair day list. Thick, coarse, frizzy waved strands as voluminous as a mushroom cloud, top my head. Tubes and bottles labeled Go Sleek, and Get It Straight fight for space on my bathroom vanity in the midst of an intersection of cords that power up my blow dryer and flat iron. In the cabinet underneath the sink, I have a backup blow dryer and flat iron.
Yes, I beat my hair into submission. I smooth, and iron the strands in an attempt to get them to lay flat. I avoid getting my hair wet. A few raindrops are enough to spring my hair back into a lampshade. Hats? Useless, since I can’t find one to fit over my hair, it ends up looking like a cherry on top of a sundae. I’ve had my hair professionally straightened. Relaxed is probably a better term, since my hair was still coarse and wavy, but a tad more manageable. My hair’s chemical addiction doesn’t stop there. I have also had my hair glossed, the equivalent of a clear coat for a car. My shiny strands (for me) set me back $135. Going in, I was told a gloss costs $45, but my sponge of a head soaked up three applications worth of product. Fat hair equals fat price.
Why do I, an everything in moderation kind of person, torture my hair? Because on the few occasions when I did just let me hair go into its natural Medusa like state, I felt like a freak of nature. Comments along the lines of, “you have such thick, interesting hair” from strangers, or the zinger, “brillo head” in eighth grade, come to mind. I am sensitive, and yes, vain about my hair. But bad hair happens to good people.
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