Dear Hair,

Oh, hair. Why do you torment me?

Other women have glossy, shiny, bouncy hair. Hair that gets songs written about it. Hair that gets stares and sighs. Why can’t that be you?!

I've tried to take care of you. I’ve washed you, conditioned you, styled you, brushed you. I’ve used natural shampoo, highly expensive chemical concoctions, three minute miracles, long term plans, and overnight conditioning treatments. And here you sit, looking stupid AGAIN. Another day of looking like I slept in the park.

First of all, you’re naturally curly and I can live with that even though you don’t always give me the tight pretty curls I like but most of the time opt out for the stupid humps that bear no resemblance to curls at all. I’ve tried to straighten you from time to time using expensive straightening creams, mediocre straightening devices and what happens? As soon as I walk outside into the slightest bit of humidity you do that fucked up humpy thing again. Can’t I get a break!

Secondly, you drink conditioner like you’re a frat boy sucking suds. I’ve conditioned you every damn day, and you’re crispy and frizzy. Yesterday, I didn’t even use shampoo, just conditioner, and you’re still a fried mess. Would one day of shine kill you?

And let’s talk about the cut. I have no money to blow, so I can’t afford a good expensive cut. I can afford Wal-Mart, maybe, but that way I’d have a short stupid haircut. (Is that all they teach those people how to cut?) So I don’t cut it, and now I have a semi-long stupid haircut. I try to keep it long because my husband likes it like that and so I can have styling options, because maybe someday I’ll come up with something that looks good. Riiiiiiight. Thank the Lord for ponytail holders.

I’ve seen women with beautiful hair. I know they exist –– Jennifer Aniston, Eva Mendes, Sarah Jessica Parker, bitch in the checkout at Wal-Mart. They have glorious gorgeous fabulous tresses. I wish I could have them, just for a day.

But noooooo. You perch atop my head, like a fuzzy lopsided stringy nasty dead wombat. You are the cockroach in the strawberry sundae of my life. Screw you, where’s my hat?

PS: Mom, would you consider giving me a haircut when I come in next weekend?