I'd Like To Have A Word With My Frizzy, Unruly Hair

Dear Frizzy, Unruly Hair,

I realize it’s hard being caught somewhere between straight and curly. You are confused, I know, but I have been good to you over the years! So for fuck’s sake, I think it’s time for you to do me a solid and start behaving. I mean, can you just pick a side? Straight or curly — or I will gladly take those loose beachy waves that appear effortless, but are most definitely not effortless.

I like kinky things in my life, but hair is not one of them. I am sorry for all my past mistakes of dying, teasing, and being too rough with you, but can we move on now? I’ve been treating you better for some time now.

I have tried all the organic oils: coconut, Moroccan, avocado. You don’t give a shit about any of them. Your fly-aways will break through them all.

I have used all the straight irons, curling irons, and defrizzers on the market. I have experimented with the 3-minute miracle lotions and potions.

The only miracle that happened was me having an excuse to stay in the hot shower for an extra three minutes and think about how I would flip you over my shoulder while walking slow-motion style into Target as the doors caused you to gently move in their breeze and then fall back on my shoulders, just as you should.

But, no, that can’t happen because you are a stubborn miracle-repeller and obviously hate very expensive things.

I know you are capable of being silky smooth. I have seen what you can do after I give you a blowout that makes my bis and tris feel like jelly. But afterward, you are really fucking lustrous for like five minutes, only to spring up and morph yourself into a traffic cone-shaped Brillo pad as soon as I step outdoors.

And I know I shouldn’t even waste my time on you when it is misty, rainy, cloudy, humid, or if there is a gentle breeze coming in from the Pacific Northwest, but I do. I want to keep trying with you, but you keep giving me the middle finger, dammit.

Which reminds me: The finger-combing technique that is supposed to work wonders with hair like you, does not work at all. Sure, it makes me look like I have spent the night entertaining several men, but that is not what I am going for here.

And it would be really fantastic to take a swim without looking like a Muppet only minutes after I emerge from the water with my hair slicked back resembling Yasmine Bleeth in a sexy Baywatch scene. There is not a hat big enough to cover this clusterfuck.

And Lord knows, I lose my shit if I forget to put an elastic around my wrist just in case I need to pull you back and forget about your craziness. If I don’t have a hair tie, we are packing up and going the fuck home.

I have slept with rollers the size of soda cans. I have done the dry shampoo thing, the no shampoo thing, and I have even tried fucking pomade.

And on the very rare occasion when you do look good, there is no one around to see it. Like last week while I was home sick on the sofa, you were looking mighty fine. What I wouldn’t give for you to act like that for an evening out with the girls as we sip on Moscato. Perhaps the school play would be a good time for your cooperation, or fuck, I would even settle for a quick jaunt to the grocery store so someone could see me with my awesome hair.

Those sears on my neck are from my salon-grade curling wand I purchased thinking I could manipulate you into beachy waves. The phrase “it hurts to be beautiful” is not a joke. You should have to obtain a special license to operate one of those fuckers.

My overpriced hair dryer is always on the cool setting and has a diffuser attached to it the size of my ass. You don’t seem to notice. I get nothing for my gentleness.

I would like to say I am out of fucks as far as you are concerned. You are exhausting, so much work, but I can’t seem to quit trying. Please, I beg of you, settle down. You do not get to look crazy and unruly all the time — you are not pubic hair!

Are you just trying to remind me how much you suit me? How crazy and unruly my life is? Because if you are, you are succeeding. Every time I look in the mirror, see my reflection in a window, or accidentally take a selfie, I am reminded of all the chaos that surrounds me. I just feel people might start to think I have my shit together if I could straighten you out a tad.

Until then, I will be waiting for the “I just pissed on an electric fence” to come into fashion. But honestly, over four decades into my life, I am afraid it’s never going happen. So please, try to work with me here.

Yours Truly,

Becky With the Crazy Hair