Apparently, AA (the drinking one, not the car one) define insanity as doing the same thing over and over again expecting a different result. Well, sign me up for one of those delightful rooms with the padded wallpaper and have me fitted for a straitjacket, because here we go again.
Yes, I’m trying to straighten my hair.
This may seem like an everyday process, one that is certainly performed by millions of people the world over. Like those fortunate people, I too believe that products + good drying technique will result in poker straight and glossy locks. I convince myself every time that I know what I’m doing, that this master plan cannot possibly fail.
So after the special shampoo, the gunky styling creme, and a muscle strain in my shoulder from all the blowdrying, you’d think I’d be proud of myself.
Instead I’m checking my scalp for superficial burns and cursing the ringlets that have popped out from nowhere. Goldilocks I am not, and consequently I would like hair that suits someone over the age of five.
Now this might not seem like a particularly valid grievance, particularly in such serious times, but I’ve been living with this petty anguish since I was a nipper. For we curly-haired sprogs had a hell to endure every bathtime that normal people did not: detangling. I don’t think the complex relationship with my mother can be attributed to one factor, but the ritual of getting the ‘tugs’ from my hair every other day is certainly near the top of the list for consideration.
I just want to look like those pretty people on the covers of magazines. Losing six stones overnight isn’t likely, but I should at least be able to have the hair. I can’t even take solace in those rare seasons where curls are in, because naturally curly hair doesn’t look like those pictures. Those models spend forever being twisted and teased (ooh, lucky!) and it’s just as pointless as the hours I spend ironing my own unruly tresses. Is it any wonder I want a quick 20 minute solution to save me another morning of avoiding mirrors – meaning I usually end up at work looking like Wurzel Gummidge. I want promises, hyperbole and assurances that miracles do happen, dammit. Then I remember: they never come true.
Curse you, lying hair product mavericks, you won’t foil me again.
Ooh, Pantene do a straightening gel…