Que Sera Sera

Cruel Semi-Irony:

Some days, when I’m feeling so inclined, I use a large curling iron to flip out the ends of my hair—a la Sandra Dee, only a tad more punk rock. While doing this yesterday, I incurred my first-ever curling iron burn.

I actually never owned a curling iron in middle school, when big bangs were all the rage. (I, sad sack that I was, used my mother’s hot rollers to achieve my do, which probably accounted for its lackluster height.) I also never incurred any hickeys in middle school—not sure if this is something to be proud of or not; they always seemed pretty tacky, but hey, so is French kissing on the church bus, and I wasn’t above that back in the day. Hell, I’m probably not above it now, were the situation to arise.

Anyway, my fresh curling iron burn is right in the traditional hickey spot on my neck, and I’ll be damned if it looks just like one. This is so unfair! Whenever people actually got hickeys in middle school, (and by “people,” I of course mean Samantha Micelli on Who’s The Boss?), they were always busted by trying the curling iron defense, because it never looked like an actual curling iron burn; it looked like someone sucked their neck until the blood vessels burst. So why does mine? Is this life’s way of reminding me what a huge dork I was in middle school?

I’ll say it again: I will never be cool.

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