As my mother--and nearly every other girl born with straight hair--could tell you, I wish desperately that I had been born with curly hair. Or wavy hair. Or hair that does something besides hang in lank strands around my face. I've long held a grudge against Patrick and Andrew for having naturally thick, wavy hair that actually forms ringlets when it gets too long. Those two have the amazing hair, Jonathan has the absurdly long and thick eyelashes, and I have a chip on my shoulder.
In the last few weeks I've taken to sleeping with my hair in curlers a few times a week. When the rollers come out and the resulting curls are forced into order I have something resembling the hair I've always wanted.
No more. It would appear that my hair can't withstand the weekly onslaught of curlers and has decided that it would rather break and fall out that be forced into ringlets.
See that poor girl? I'm calling her the anthropomorphic representation of my hair. Except that she has improbably nice locks and a well-dressed gentleman to rush to her aid.