I hate my hair

I hate my hair. Or perhaps it's more accurate to say that I have yet to enter a peace treaty with my hair. It's still an ongoing epic battle, day in and day out, that I am losing tremendously.

Hairdressers love to tell me how much they love my hair. It's so thick and so curly and it grows so fast. For someone with intricate knowledge of hair and nearly unlimited resources, I'm sure my hair is fantastic. It's different than most heads of hair, it's a challenge to be tackled head-on (pun not intended). There's potential there, there's a lot that can be done and the result could be amazing.

But I hate it. It's frizzy and it's dry. If humidity or water touches it it instantly turns into a poodle puff atop my head. If I go outside before it's 100% dry, it's instantly ruined for the day. I have to use very specific products in exact amounts and if I do anything slightly incorrectly, there's nothing I can do to fix it short of take another shower and start all over. Updos are hopeless. My hair slays elastics and devours bobby pins and defies laws of physics, and that's just while I'm thinking about putting it into a bun. The bushy ponytail is all I have.

Since puberty, it has been my only solace

There have been days when I've cried in frustation over my hair. It seems so stupid, but it's happened. I have top of the line flat irons and hair dryers, stylist recommended pins and elastics, YouTube tutorials and blog entries galore, yet I cannot do anything with my hair. I set aside time every Sunday to practice simple things like french braiding the blow drying with a round brush. I've been doing this for over two years and I have yet to come close to doing these things correctly. I hate my hair. It is hopeless.