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Warning!! - World-Class Whining Ahead!!

Total and complete whining. Whining about *stupid* shit, even.

First off, let me say that this is my own fault. 100%, totally and completely my fault. 

Secondly, I have to preface by saying that I am not a "girly" girl. I'm strictly jeans, t-shirts and sneakers, never wear make-up and *loathe* dresses with a passion. Heels? I wear a size 12 women's shoe. What do *you* think?

Taking point the second into consideration, I come to my problem. I hate my hair. I hate it with the passion of a thousand fiery suns. 

It's curly. It's not just curly, it's Little Orphan Annie Curly, only in brown instead of red. I spent my entire life to the age of 16 doing anything my family wanted and my hair was cut at home as a result. I didn't have a professional haircut until the day I walked into a salon on the very first payday of my very first part-time job at age 16 and said, "Shave it all off."

After a long bit of arguing, I left and felt the breeze on the back of my head, all the way up to the crown. My family was hysterical. 

That's been the style I've kept for the last 13 years, except for a two and a half year period that I tried to grow it out, before I gave in and shaved it all off again. And now? I've decided I'm going to give it another shot. It's about two and a half to three inches long right now, but keep in mind that two and a half to three inches for curly equals about two inches at most unless you grab one and straighten it. It also means that it grows *out*, not *down*. 

I can't do *anything* with it. Nothing! Hairdryers are a joke on curly hair. You get frizz. Even diffusers frizz short hair up. The only option, if I want defined curls and not cottonpuff is to let it air dry. Which means I either get up and wash my hair at 2am, or I go to work with it wet. In December. Yes, even in Texas I have gone to work and literally had tiny icicles hanging off random curls by the time I got in the building. 

It's far too short to pull back or pin up and I can't straighten it because it fries it. 

Today was the third unsuccessful attempt with the diffuser, wherein I went to work and my very kind co-workers pointedly did not look at my wannabe-mad scientist-experimental-hair. I am so, so *so* tempted to just go and shave my head again. However, there's little that's guaranteed to put me in a homicidal mood faster than having a coat on and walking out of Wal-Mart, only to have the Salvation Army Santa say, "Have a Merry Christmas, Sir."

Fuck it. I'm moving to a deserted island where I can shave my head and run around naked all the time.





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