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Flip Flopped
In high school, growing up in Tulsa, Oklahoma, I slept on rollers the size of orange juice cans. Not the large size cans, that would be silly. I slept on the regular size cans. (This amazes me now because I am the worlds worst sleeper. Very much the Princess and the Pea.) If you are thinking that sleeping on such huge rollers is really, really stupid, it gets worse.
Each morning, ever hopeful, I would go into the bathroom, excited with the possibilities that I would finally have hair like the girls in the "in" crowd. I would ceremoniously remove each curler, jittery with anticipation. Because I'd used healthy globs of Dippity Doo, my hair crunched and crackled like stiff plastic wrap as I unrolled each curl. Crisp ringlets dangled, ready to be maneuvered with skilled twists of my wrist, hairbrush in hand, like a magic wand, Miss Teen U.S.A. ready to emerge. continued
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My hair is a constant source of angst, frustration, intimidation, and occasionally, oh yes, joy and exhilaration. Maybe you're one of those women who can relate. You know those special days when your hair turns out good. How clever, funny, and sparkly you feel. You're sure everyone notices. When your closest friends and family members don't say anything you wonder what tragedies they must be harboring to have been blind to your bejeweled crown. Only someone who was totally wrapped up in earthshaking matters could have missed it.
