XO Erotica

Oh, hair. Why do you persecute me so?
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You’re a time consuming pastime. You’re an unattainable challenge. You’re an intangible goal that always remains just out of reach. You hold so much promise and potential in your locks, yet you rarely deliver. I wish I knew how to quit you. You tease.
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Where did you even come from anyway? Everyone in my family has pretty, manageable hair. They all have shiny, glossy tresses that do annoying things like ‘frame their face,’ ‘layered,’ and ‘stay put’ was I adopted? You’re like some kind of cruel genetic joke. Why must I be forced into a life of unreasonable morning prep time? I often get asked if I ever straighten you. I have tried, hair. I’ve invested good money on giving you options and variety. But I think two hours is too much to ask from a girl with a very finite attention span. You only last like that for a few days anyway. You’re a lot like self-tanner. You look good at a distance for a while, but don’t work up close because you smell, god-awful. Any attraction you bring at that time is quickly forgotten when they get near enough to smell you in all your burnt glory. And don’t even get me started on humidity. No one else watches for the five day forecast before getting ready every day, lest they look like they’re wearing an upside down yield sign on their head.
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Why won’t you let me wear hats? They are so cute, and look good on everyone else. But no, you insist on puffing out like some kind of sick hair equivalent to a muffin top in too-tight jeans. Your unwillingness to cooperate makes me feel that we are very much in an uneven relationship, you and I. I treat you well. I try to take care of you. I wash you, condition you, style you, I keep you trimmed. I’ve used expensive shampoo, dollar store shampoo, relaxers, creams, gels, mousse, and ‘As Seen On TV’ miracle cures. I have even tried more nontraditional things like mayonnaise, egg and even avocado. Hell, if you told me switching from shampoo to the real stuff would make you look fabulous, I would. Yet here you sit, ungrateful and stupid. You repay me for my tireless efforts by continuously trying to turn curls into frizzy, snake-like dreadlocks. It won’t work, hair, your efforts are for naught, I still hold some power. I’m sorry I refused to try that beer idea, but I frankly don’t want to party foul on my head and smell homeless. I really think you’re being unreasonable.
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Don’t get me wrong; you do have your good traits too. You’re a conversation starter with complete strangers. You’ve gotten me many compliments, and more than one absurd comment. You have, on two separate occasions inspired people I’ve never met to become overcome with the need to tap me on the shoulder to inform me I have mermaid hair. What does that even mean? You give me the peace of mind knowing that I will never suffer from thinning. You give me comfort in knowing that I will never have to shell out for expensive Rogaine, Ovation Therapy, or similar. You even become a quite pretty blond color during the summer. I wholeheartedly encourage this behavior and wish you would continue this the other 3/4 of the year.
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Oh you glorious, tangled mess, we’ve been through a lot together. You’ve been right there with me through all of life’s most memorable moments. We’ve had some laughs. Remember that one time you accidentally turned out orange? Good times. But no, seriously, you’re getting fixed. I don’t want to be the girl that resorts to ultimatums, but you really have brought this upon yourself. Start pulling your weight, or I go GI Jane. I know a certain someone would be very unhappy with us, but you really shouldn’t put me in that position anyway. For some reason he finds it endearing the way you perch atop my head and act like Velcro. You’re lucky there’s somebody that finds your antics cute, hair, because I, for one, do not. So the ball is, as they say, in your court. I don’t want to lose you, but don’t think I won’t donate you to some unfortunate kemo patient. Don’t tempt me. Choose wisely.
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The end…