It has been said that man is born to struggle. I know this to be true, because most of my day is spent struggling with my hair and the elements of humidity. With only three bobby pins, a hair tie, and my fingers, I wage daily battle with the mass of hair that plots to take over a small European country at some point in the future.
I hate my hair. I've hated my hair ever since I was about three years old and had the misfortune to be friends with the brattiest little girl ever. Sadly, I attract people who often aren't good for me, and Rochelle was the first of many to come. She was blonde, and I wished fervently for blonde hair like Rochelle's.
To add salt to the already gaping wound, Rochelle had straight hair. Straight blonde hair that fell in clumps. Looking back, I realize that no one should ever be jealous of someone's hair if the word clump applies to it. As the years passed, I made more and more friends who also had straight hair that fell in perfect clumps, never ate their barettes alive, and never got so tangled that it could take a half hour to repair the damage. Their hair always looked so nice and non-invasive, whereas mine was the worst part of every morning as I would get my mom to help me tame it into a nice pony tail. I was jealous.
It must be so easy to have straight hair. You can puff it up, sleek it back into a pony tail without a hair out of place, and brush it. Easy as pie. When you have curly hair you create your schedule around your hair. You have to take your shower early enough that you don't fall asleep on it as it dries. If you are unfortunate enough to fall into bed with wet hair you inevitably wake up looking something like the Bride of Frankenstein. A world full of bobby pins would not help you now. The humidity uses invisible fingers to puff and tease your hair into something resembling a chia pet, and your only recourse against it is to braid it into a strange bun that hopefully doesn't look like you got it from last night's episode of Game of Thrones.
My friends with straight hair tell me that they have their own problems, and I do believe them to an extent, but it is true we never know another person's troubles until we walk in their shoes. Just as they don't see me and my struggles every day, their struggles are minimized by the time I don't spend watching them try to tease life into limp strands which tend to clump. And as happy as I am that my hair will never do that, a small part of me will always wish to have anyone's hair but mine.