Dear Frizzball,
I understand how tough it must be for you, caught in that confusing limbo between sleek and curly. I get it; you’re conflicted. But honestly, after all these years of being kind to you, can we please come to an agreement? Just pick a lane—straight, curly, or those effortlessly tousled beach waves that, let’s be real, are anything but effortless.
While I appreciate a little chaos in my life, hair drama isn’t my jam. I acknowledge my past blunders of dyeing, teasing, and being a bit rough around the edges, but isn’t it time we hit the reset button? I’ve been trying to treat you right lately.
I’ve experimented with every organic oil under the sun: coconut, Moroccan, avocado—you name it. Yet, your flyaways brush them aside like they’re nothing. I’ve tried every straightening iron, curling wand, and anti-frizz product imaginable. The only miracle that’s happened is my excuse to linger in the hot shower, daydreaming about how I’d strut into Target with you flowing perfectly—only to be met with reality when I step outside, and you morph into a wild, unmanageable mess.
I know you can be sleek and shiny. I’ve seen it after a blowout that leaves my arms feeling like jelly. But just minutes later, you revert back to your Brillo pad form, especially when the weather gets even slightly moody—mist, rain, humidity, you name it. It’s like you’re giving me the middle finger, and it’s exhausting.
And don’t get me started on the finger-combing technique that’s supposed to work wonders for hair like ours. Instead, I end up looking like I just walked off a wild night, which isn’t quite the vibe I’m aiming for.
I’d love to swim without emerging looking like a Muppet. Is there a hat big enough to hide this hot mess? I panic if I forget a hair tie; if I don’t have one, it’s time to pack up and go home.
I’ve tried sleeping with rollers the size of soda cans, experimented with dry shampoo, and even dabbled in pomade. Yet, on those rare occasions when you decide to cooperate, like last week when I was home sick, no one is around to see it. I’d love for you to look that good during a night out with friends. Even a trip to the grocery store would suffice!
Those burns on my neck from that salon-grade curling wand? Yeah, “beauty is pain” is no joke. My overpriced hairdryer is gentle, but you seem indifferent to my efforts.
Honestly, I’m running out of patience here. You’re a lot of work, but I can’t seem to give up on you. Please stop being so wild. You’re not meant to look like a tornado hit you—you’re not pubic hair!
Are you trying to remind me that my life is just as chaotic? Because if that’s your goal, you’ve nailed it. Every time I catch a glimpse of myself, I’m reminded of the whirlwind around me. A little cooperation from you would do wonders for my self-image.
Until then, I’ll be waiting for the day when “just got shocked” hair becomes a trend. But honestly, after four decades of life, I fear that day may never come. So please, let’s find some common ground.
Sincerely,
Lily with the Wild Locks
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Summary
In this humorous letter, a frustrated woman addresses her frizzy hair, detailing her struggles with its unpredictable nature. Despite her best efforts with various treatments and styling tools, her hair remains defiant, mirroring the chaos in her life. She yearns for a more manageable mane, hoping for cooperation from her unruly locks.