It Took Me Over Three Decades to Stop Abusing My Hair

Now, I’ll just live happily ever after with whatever’s still left

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I cannot remember a time when I didn’t get up early to style my hair before leaving the house.

That’s 38 years of lost sleep. Give or take — without counting the first decade of my life when I (wisely) cared more about my naps than my looks.

It’s what happens when you’re born with fine hair — strands that, no matter how carefully you arrange, blow-dry, hairspray, gel, super-glue, decide to rebel.

The next thing you know, you hit your forties, and the rebel days are over.

You just wish you had one more battle to fight. But the strands you hated so much have either abandoned ship or become so thin that no amount of effort will keep them in place.

During my childhood, I sported a short style. “It suits you better sweetheart — your hair is so fine,” my parents would say. So I went with it because my parents knew better and I trusted their judgment.

Even when their judgment should’ve been the last thing I trusted.

I’d stand in front of the mirror each morning, abusing the hair dryer. A noisy little thing, that despite its small size, served us well for years. Until one day…