So I’ve had very few good hair days in my life. My strands just have a mind of their own. Okay, I’ll admit that it’s also laziness on my part. I’ve always been the person who looks at 5 minutes of getting reader as 5 minutes I could have stayed in bed. I am NOT a morning person.
My hair didn’t start out awful. It was straight and shiny and the perfect blonde color to go with my skin tone. Sure, I had those times as a child where it looked horrible (after chopping half my bangs off or after one of the multiple times we had to cut gum out of it), but it wasn’t too shabby in the early years. But around 4 or 5, it kind of started becoming a rat’s nest.
I don’t know how much of this nest was caused by always being outside, playing with the boys. Or maybe it was because, by that time, I got myself ready most days and my hair just didn’t warrant any attention.
My mom still did my hair on special occasions (school photos and such). She and my grandma were obsessed with Shirley Temple so, when my mom did do my hair, it was by rolling it in pink sponge curlers and having me go to bed that way. I must have been totally brainwashed because I LOVED my hair like that.
Fast forward a few years and my mom just couldn’t stand how disgusting my hair always looked. I owned a brush, I remember using it to make the ‘80s party bangs, but other than that, I don’t think I brushed my hair once. My mom got so tired of it that, in 4th grade, she forced me to chop it all off into what my siblings dubbed my “mushroom hair.” Yeah, it was pretty bad. Luckily I only had to have it a little while, perhaps a year or so. After that it grew back out and I tried to brush it once a week to keep my mom from making me chop it off again.
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