It is official. My hair hates me. After my last attempt at professionally taming it failed, as I woke up this morning I realized my hairs conspires against me while I sleep. Any measures taken towards confining them in shape or form are emphatically thwarted throughout the night and the more important the day will be, the worse my hair will manage to tangle, poof out, and become nonnegotiable.

You may think me paranoid, but by the looks of my broken comb I was able to pinpoint the insurrection towards the west side of the my head. and before being able to apply product and moisture to calm it, the east stood up in rebellious curls. My army of brushes and bobby pins was split and conquered.

My plan was simple – a swift stroke of the brush, with a spray of water quickly following. I managed to make the north comply, but by that point the ends caught wind of my intentions and defiantly rose, meeting my brush and water with tiny outward facing spears of red thread, utterly undefeatable.

I abandoned my plans, and before any more plots against my appearance could be executed, I rushed it from underneath hoping to deflate its center. That too proved impregnable, and my brush was taken hostage by a rogue band of hairs. They were completely undiplomatic and refused to relinquish my brush, leaving me no choice but to overtake them with smoothing gels and  a mercenary troop of foreign Moroccan oils.

I was celebrating my small victory over a patch of offensive hair only to have the briefly obedient north fly at my eyes, momentarily blinding me, and removing my focus from the underbelly of hair that I had been in the process of imprisoning. I release my grip on my brush to swat at the incoming fleet of errant strands, and consequently lost my stronghold. As it crinkled back into its position I softly heard its hissing cheer.

I was running late and had had enough, bringing out my deadliest of weapons, the straightening iron. Strand by strand each region of my head took turns being chained to the machine as I dragged most oppressive heat across thin red bodies of newly repentant hair.

Some bobbed and weaved at even this, fighting to the bitter end, but after the second and sometimes third racking, even the most disobedient hairs fell into place. Their cheering hisses turned into submissive sizzles. As a reminder of my triumph I pinned several strands under my butterfly barrette.

Another day of successfully putting down hair revolts and I have maintained my reign over all regions of my hair. Tonight I sleep, they plot, and tomorrow morning we begin all over again. With my brush in hand I shall take each one down once more!