The Curse of the Curls

Okay, I am going to rant about something completely meaningless in the grand scheme of things, but since I just finished my 2 hour hair straightening marathon, I really have a strong desire to share it with you lucky readers. If you have straight hair, thank our Maker now. If you have ever complained about how fine and limp it is and how it just won't hold curl, slap yourself right now and then resume reading.

I was born with no hair at all. For the first two years of my life, my parents heard "what a handsome little boy you have", regardless of the lacy dress and the bow my mother toothpaste onto my head. Yes, she actually did. Then after my second birthday blond curls started growing. Not only was I the only blond Watson (lots o'cherokee blood) but I was the only curly head in my household, having received it from my father (thanks, dad) who didn't live with us and who had started losing his hair by the time I made my debut anyway (He was 37 and balding, yet still incredibly handsome). The curls weren't so bad then. My hair was still rather short and they just sort of arranged themselves. It was a little later when my hair got long and coarse that it got scary. It looked pretty until my mom had my waist-long hair chopped off in second grade. Then it was...well, never the same. Of course, it only got worse when puberty came knocking. Yep, it got even curlier. In seventh grade, I thought getting it cut a inch from my scalp would help. It didn't. Growing it out, however, lent educational experiences in various forms of gel, mousse and how to shake off being called "helmet head" in the midst of middle school which in and of itself is comparable to purgatory.

Finally by high school, I had resigned myself to my fate and learned, more or less, how to do my hair. Looking back, I fondly refer to my style as the "swoopty-do". After drying my curls, I brushed the front over to one side and caught it with a barrette. I then spent great portions of the day pulling my long hair over one shoulder in an effort to keep it out of my face on the side minus the barrette. Hence, the swoopty-do. It really didn't look too bad for the times (early to mid nineties, well, you know) but I was only one of two girls in my entire high school (about 700 people) with naturally curly hair. I know, that doesn't seem statistically logical to me either, but it was true. Since the big hair of the 80's had been replaced with sleek, shiny hair curled with a curling iron (admit it, you had one), I suppose my hair lent a mysterious aspect to my persona, not that I really needed any help in that department. People would tell me "Oh, your hair is so beautiful, I would love to have your curls" and "It must be so nice to just wash it and go". Um, it wasn't...and isn't...and I am certain if anyone had traded hair with me it would've been extremely short-lived.

Well, enter the late nineties, that stupid "Friends" haircut that everyone wanted (me included) and my introduction to straightening lotions and flat irons. Where had these ingenious inventions been during my high school career? At first, I was just happy to have "straight" hair. A few years later when my daughter was born, the time consuming process was a little annoying. After my son was born, it was like "I have hair? Oh yeah." and now I fall into the category of "%@*%&#*...I have to wash my hair tonight". Yes, I have very dry hair and can go a day without washing it. These are my happy days. Ah, an hour and a half of free time. What shall I do? Read a book? Fold laundry? Blog? Pinning that hair up and taking a shower without having to shampoo it, condition it, brush it, put the straightener in it, flip head over, dry the underneath, flip head back over, dry a section at a time with a round brush so big it could (and has) double as a back scratcher, using hair clip apply Biosilk and iron a section at a time, and finally having the hair I desire....is wonderful. However, on nights like tonight, I begrudgingly give in to the desire to have what God did not bestow upon me and I punish myself with a 2 hour work out that raises my core body temperature 5 degrees and leaves my arms completely numb...but, my hair is straight. The thing that has eluded me most of my life is within the realm of reality for about 24-48 hours, depending on the relative humidity.

Ah, you are saying to yourself, "No one is forcing her to do this, why isn't she just happy with the hair she has?", and you're right...sort of. Maybe one day I will stop this insanity and just let my hair do it's electric-outlet-shocking thing for all the world to see. Until then, though, the madness will continue. Why?

Well, I'll let you know when I do.