Que Sera Sera

I laugh in the face of your volumizing shampoo:

As I may have mentioned before, I have some really thick hair. It’s the kind of thick that causes people with thinner hair (which, to be honest, is most of the population) to say, “Oooh, you have such nice thick hair!”, and then I sound like an asshole if I say, “No, it’s really not.” I’m not being polite or modest or self-deprecating: my hair is a pain in the ass.

When I was in middle school and yearned for Julia-Roberts-in-Steel-Magnolia spiral waves, it was straight as a board. Now that I’m 25 and would kill for my middle school hair, it decided to up the ante this past year from sort of wavy to sort of curly—which would be acceptable, if not for the thickness. It curls underneath just as sweet as can be, but by the time it reaches the top layer, it’s just frizzy. The humidity in Tulsa during the summer doesn’t help.

Heather, my hair care professional who refers to it as “hella hair,” informed me on my last visit that our hair changes texture every seven years or so.

“Does that mean I’ve got another six years or so with this mess?” I asked.

“Well,” she paused, “you could always get pregnant. That usually changes it. But it might just make it curlier.”

Seeing how this is not an option, I’m still fighting the good fight every morning. I’ve bought special conditioners, shampoos, curling irons, straightening irons, hot rollers, velcro rollers, balms, Aveda’s Hang Straight, and some fantastic-smelling Bumble & Bumble products, but my hair just laughs. I’ll spend thirty minutes coaxing into semi-sleekness, only to walk out the front door and hear it frizz out. I’ve tried to work with the curl, but this is successful only if I have two and a half hours to let it hang dry. Diffusers make it look like a bad, crunchy perm.

I should just surrender to the ponytail from April to August.

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