To the hair that has stayed with me, through thick luscious hair days, as well as the thin greasy hair days: I’m sorry.
From the day you came into existence, I’ve hated you. You snarl as a standstill, forcing me to constantly brush you. I dreaded mornings because I knew you’d put up a fight against my comb and brush. Each morning, my mother or father used to stand in the mirror with me as they slowly brushed you, prolonging my pain. It was always followed by them running their hands under some water to pat down all of your little flyaways and baby hairs, though once the water dried, they were back in action.
One day, you got caught up in a sticky situation. When I was about four years old, I was playing with some red silly putty and somehow got it tangled up in you. I guess the only way to get it out was to coat my hair in peanut butter and wash it out. Weird, but hey, it came out right? Maybe that’s where my love for peanut butter came from, it saved your life.
Every special function, whether it was a portrait at JCPenney’s or family gatherings, a curling iron was no match for you. Any curl delicately placed in my shoulder-length hair would eventually fall down to your tips like a pig’s tail. I must admit though, you have gotten better about this with the amount of heat I give you on a daily basis.
Right before eighth grade, I got bored with you. Each day, I’d straighten your right-parted hair and go about my day. In a rash decision, I had your front hair cut to bangs. I lied. Maybe it wasn’t just because I was bored. I also was inspired by Lea Michele of course. Your thick, opaque bangs covered my forehead perfectly, though, after a few months, you became hard to manage. The constant need to fix you became unbearable, so you were pinned out of sight until you aged to blend in and stay out of my face.
After senior year, I wanted to start fresh. New hair, new me? That’s a bit of an oversimplification of the process but essentially, that was my thought process. In yet, another rash decision, I got a perm. Or a texture wave, whatever you’d like to call it. While I felt like a young Carrie Bradshaw at first, I soon felt like a poodle. Nonetheless, your curls gave me the hair confidence I needed, and I loved you for that.
Eventually, your perfectly even curls got less perfect. I began straightening over you once I began college. I was beginning to see that same girl I saw in the mirror prior to the less than thought out decision. And I craved something new for you. Magnolia Hall 4606 is where you lost your hair virginity. It was a Friday night in September with the girls and a Garnier box dye from the CVS a block away. Although you refused to change for the first few dyes, by December, you were boldly blond.
Looking back at photos, you are simply not a bleach blond. Though there was so much lightener in you that you refused to become any other color. That is until my hairdresser gave you a thorough detox, eliminating any junk that you kept within. She then gave you a nice bath of chocolate dye, and I currently adore you. I feel like Taylor Swift in her music video, “Wildest Dreams.”
Also, please send my sincere apologies to your cousins, left and right eyebrow. They too have been through the wringer. Once acne consumed my face, I doused anything benzoyl peroxide and/or salicylic acid on it, bleaching your close family members. To this day, they receive a bi-daily shower.
In conclusion, I apologize for all of the damage I’ve done to you. Although you give me pain from time to time, you’re the security blanket that lies on my back wherever I go. So, thank you.
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