Rainy Days and Frizz Days Always Get Me Down

By the time Tropical Storm Fay arrived in Charlotte today it had been “downgraded to a tropical depression” as the weathermen keep saying. Depressed is how I’d feel, too, if I were downgraded. And it’s precisely how I feel today in the face of growing evidence that I’m destined to look like a Q-tip for the duration of my stay in the south.

Mind you, this frizz-fest is not a result of running around in the rain. It’s a result of the mere presence of rain. Leaving home this morning, my coif was flat-ironed to perfect straightness along the front and sides. I heard the rain splashing violently outside my window but somehow convinced myself that with an umbrella, I could preserve the straight hair I slave for and covet in others.

The reality of humidity is finally sinking in. (Yes, I’m a slow study.)

I've been teasing and straightening my hopelessly frizzy follicles since 7th grade, praying that someday I would stumble on the Holy Grail of Hair and be magically transformed into Brooke Shields from the scalp up (though I wouldn't mind looking a little like the rest of her either).

Once I even had a professional salon straighten my hair with some kind of acid that left oozing boils all over my scalp. I was thrilled. Boils were a small price for the most luxurious straight hair I'd ever known. Then flat irons became fashionable and I discovered what a few minutes of very hot metal will do to curly hair (and any flesh that gets in the way).

After 34 years you’d think I’d be able to accept what God gave me. There's a lot about myself I have learned to be happy with. In the hair department, I’m still in hopeless denial.