![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlY-aRhFClCTs77Jk4p6vHS4qTHkcZ7w5yF8j_k04Kb8RTNtrG3GXHssFsyUlKd8EHkWes-Ew7OSfAQsKcLeLAchC_eEB1wipFBDe-E5m5q3wCaivg5BUCVqnXxEyDxcIlcpoqQt93Gf4/s320/widget_dOA7d2derbjldZ5tfY3iXd.jpg)
We always want what we don’t have. Curly-haired vixens always want to kick their corkscrews to the curb in favor of stick-straight hair, while those of us with only a hint of a limp wave want undulating, Keri Russell-like locks of love.
We spray, rub, and massage curl-enhancing unguents into our manes. We scrunch. We dry with a diffuser. And voilĂ ! We achieve the follicular stuff of which pre-Raphaelite dreams are made. One problem: we could blind a passerby with our crunchy curls. More post- than pre-Perseus Medusa, our hair is a mass of stone-cold locks.
Put down the can, jar, and bottle and learn to love yourself, limp hair and all. You could poke an eye out.
(photo: omgihavethat.blogspot.com)