I’ve always wanted what I can’t have, and this certainly applies to my hair texture.
It started when I was 13. After an unfortunate attempt to rock a Dorothy Hamill wedge, I turned to the perm. In a word, oy. To amp up the foxy, I got a barrel curling iron to roll my bangs into a totally rad forehead awning…which I needed to cover up the burns I got every month or so from standing too close to the fire.
I eventually turned away from the 80s and curly hair and longed for stick-straight hair.Enter the flat iron. Now, I smooth my locks and tamp down my cowlicks. In the process, I manage to regularly sear my skin, branding myself a dumbass. I currently have a mark on my neck that looks like Bill Compton has been snacking on my carotid artery. Call me crazy, but grown-ass women shouldn’t have vampire hickeys. Since I’m not going to embrace my natural beauty any time soon, Conair needs to invent an iron that doesn’t leave a mark of lame. In the meantime, I'm growing my hair out so I should be able to cover my cattle brand.