My relationship with hair is sort of love-hate. My own, in particular. While I am grateful that I have the know-how and patience to style these mind-of-their-own tresses, the reality is that I will never experience a carefree, wash-and-go 'do that saves me time and effort that might better be used doing something more beneficial. Like say, oh I don't know, anything else.
Yes, I have hair, and yes, I am adept enough to style it most anyway I choose. There are days, however, when I would love to just shake the excessive water from it post-shower and go out into the world without looking progressively mad hatter-ish as these coarse, thick locks dry. No really, it's quite frightful for this head of hair to be mingling in public untamed and askew. The frizz alone amplifies the overall look of unkempt bed head.
My trusty sidekicks are ever-reliable hot tools that allow me to dry, curl, straighten and even gently shape my natural curl with minimum frizz. Should a zombie apocalypse befall us in my lifetime, I can only hope to strike gold in stumbling upon a butane cartridge store for cordless curling irons. Of course being in ownership of that all-too dated item from long ago would be a monumental boon as well. Trust me when I say that even a post-apocalyptic society would be forever grateful for such luck. No one needs the kind of jaw-dropping distraction of that kind when facing a horde of flesh eating, brain dead walkers.
Frightful though my unfinished coif may be, it protects my skin from the sun, keeps me warm year-round and adds a certain flare to nearly any look I happen to be going for each day. It allows me to create something akin to a signature look, that nearly anyone who knows me could recognize from a distance. Sure, I might be at odds with the time and attention that it demands, but I am well aware that I'd be a bit lost and sullen without it. So, I'll take the work and any aggravation because, in the end, I'm rather like Samson when it comes right down to it.
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