Abstract
This document serves as a candid exploration of the frustrations associated with maintaining frizzy and unmanageable hair. Through a humorous lens, the writer addresses the challenges posed by unpredictable hair texture and the emotional toll of hair care practices.
Dear Frizzy, Unmanageable Hair,
I understand the struggle you endure, existing in the limbo between straight and curly. It’s a confusing existence, I know, yet I’ve been nothing but kind to you over the years. Honestly, it’s high time for you to make a choice: either embrace your straight side or your curly side. I could even settle for those effortless-looking beachy waves, which, let’s be honest, are anything but effortless.
While I appreciate a little kink in my life, I draw the line at hair. I acknowledge my past transgressions—dyeing, teasing, and rough handling—but I’ve been treating you with much more care lately. Despite my best efforts with organic oils—coconut, Moroccan, avocado—you remain indifferent, allowing those flyaways to break through any defenses I establish.
I’ve tried every styling tool imaginable, from straighteners to curling irons, and dabbled in all sorts of miracle lotions. The only miracle I’ve experienced is the excuse to linger in the shower a bit longer, daydreaming about how stunning you would look as I saunter through the aisles of Target, hair flowing in slow motion. But alas, you seem intent on being a stubborn miracle-repeller.
Your potential for silky smoothness is evident; I’ve witnessed it after a blowout that leaves my arms feeling like jelly. Yet, that radiant look vanishes almost instantaneously the moment I step outside. I know better than to even try to tame you in humid or rainy conditions, but my hope keeps getting the better of me. Why do you persist in giving me the cold shoulder?
The finger-combing technique that’s touted as a solution for hair like yours? Complete nonsense. It only leaves me looking like I’ve had a wild night out, which is not the vibe I’m aiming for. And don’t even get me started on swimming—emerging from the water only to resemble a Muppet is not my ideal look.
I have learned the hard way that forgetting a hair tie means packing up and going home. I’ve tried sleeping in rollers the size of soda cans, experimented with various shampoo methods, and, yes, even dabbled with pomade. It’s frustrating that the rare occasions when you look fabulous, I’m often alone at home, as happened last week while I was sick and lounging on the couch.
Those burns on my neck from my salon-grade curling wand are a testament to the lengths I go to for beauty. The phrase “it hurts to be beautiful” isn’t just a saying; it’s a reality. My overpriced hair dryer, equipped with a diffuser that could double as a serving platter, seems to have no effect.
I’d love to say I’m done with you, but the truth is, you are a work in progress that I can’t seem to give up on. Please, let’s strike a deal here. You don’t need to look wild and unruly all the time; you’re not pubic hair!
What’s your goal, anyway? Are you trying to reflect the chaos of my life? Because you’re succeeding. Each glance in the mirror or window reminds me of the whirlwind around me. I can’t help but think that straightening you out just a tad might give the impression that I have my life together.
Until then, I’ll be waiting for the day when the “just shocked by an electric fence” hairstyle becomes all the rage. Unfortunately, after over four decades of life, I’m beginning to think that day will never arrive. So, please, let’s work together!
Yours Sincerely,
Clara With the Wild Hair