But my curls got in the way when I wore it down—curls are soft and sweet, and not particularly intimidating. A hairdresser recommended to me by a mutual curly-headed friend used what I can only surmise was a witch’s potion on my corkscrews and turned them perfectly straight. It was incredible. After I showered, I had only to let my hair dry, and it dried stick-straight, shiny, healthy-looking. No lint, no lifelessness. There was only one problem: when I went back for more, she said salons weren’t using it anymore. Had it been discontinued? Was I lucky that I hadn’t sprouted a mutant third eye on the top of my head? I don’t know. I only know that the subsequent relaxers didn’t work as well, and I was forced to make friends with a torture device known as a Hair Iron. I spent hours sitting in front of a mirror, pressing my hair between two steaming ceramic plates, bored beyond belief. I had to schedule evenings around “doing my hair.” It became too much for me, and I made the chop again.
