Epiphany by Curling Iron

I was tired of my hair. It is long and incredibly thin and just as incredibly coarse and curly. Not the pretty curly. The “I just stuck my finger in a light socket and look what it did to my hair” curly. All I ever do is just throw it up in a pony tail. But, that day I felt an overwhelming need to have one of those woman empowering moments. Almost like the ones where an Alanis Morisette or KT Tunsell song is playing in the background and the girl looks in the mirror, takes the scissors and whacks off her hair (somehow in perfect layers or a perfect bob cut) and feels instantly liberated and empowered.

But, I’m a wimp and don’t like my hair short and I’m not a real big fan of either Alanis or KT. So I would settle on Coldplay music and use the curling iron to make perfect flowing curls, and that would count as my empowerment moment. My hair would be bouncy and sassy, just like in the commercials. Makeup would be flawless and I was going to wear an outfit that flattered me in all the right places.

I guess the bottom line was I wanted to be pretty, not just liberated or empowered. It had been awhile since I felt truly pretty. For some reason that day was the day I would get gussied up. I just really wanted him to see me as beautiful. Because, maybe that would make him remember how he felt about me. Maybe that would remind him that he cared.

So I parted my hair into sections and proceeded to wrap each section around the curling iron and then waited for a miracle to happen. The first two sections worked beautifully. The curls curled and bounced just as I imagined. I smiled with excitement. I was going to look so hot. How nice to feel beautiful again. I was determined to have a good day that day. All the right things would be said. I wasn’t going to ramble on or say something stupid. All pop culture and celebrity references would be kept at a minimum. Today I would be the pretty girl that was funny without being obnoxious, insightful instead of simple. He would look at me today and be glad I was his.

It was during this train of thought that I stopped paying attention to what I was doing to my hair. I suddenly realized I had wrapped too much around the curling iron and couldn’t get it unwrapped. It was an older curling iron and it had bristles, so it doubled as part brush/part curler. Actually, to clarify it was my grandmother’s. Evidently, not only am I too cheap to get a decent hair cut, I’m too cheap to buy a curling iron that was made after the 1990s.

I gently tried to unwrap the section of hair that was now entangled around the iron. No success. I laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of the situation. I kept trying to pull my entwined hair from the iron. Nothing happened, except it seemed to get more tangled. Progressively gentle tugging turned into frantic yanking. My laughing out loud slowly turned to frantic grunts trying to free the section of hair being held hostage by my curling iron.

“Seriously?!” I yelled out loud. Whether it was directed at me or God, I’m not sure. Although, something tells me that if it was God, not me, doing my hair- things would have turned out a lot better. I glanced at the clock. I was late. Crap. Something else for him to complain about. I needed help, so I called my mom.

“I think I’m going have to cut my hair. Like, really cut it really, really short,” I whimpered when she answered. I explained to her my situation. She laughed and said something to the effect of “only you, Angela”. The humor of the situation had pretty much left me at this point. I was late to meet him, my hair was seconds away from becoming the world’s worst pixie cut, and the weight of the curling iron hanging from my mass of hair was giving me a headache.

“Well, I can’t leave work right now. Can you come to the office and I’ll work on it here?” she suggested. I agreed to drive there. As I hung up the phone I heard her say “you’ll never guess what my daughter got herself into this time…” to a co-worker. I sighed. I glanced in the mirror, and then my glance turned into a hard stare.

My face was red and blotchy from the frustration and strain. My hair looked that of a bird’s nest, just not as neat, and with an electronic appliance hanging from it. I couldn’t look away from my reflection. I forced a laugh. It would be a funny story. And at my core I am a bit of a laugh whore; I’d do anything for one. Yep. This will be a funny one to tell everyone at work. Especially since these types of things tend to happen to me a lot.

And it was at that thought that I totally dissolved into tears. I wept. I couldn’t help myself. I just wanted so desperately to be beautiful that day. What a silly idea. That one day of good hair and makeup would save a relationship that was dying. That this stupid curling iron would act as a wand and dissolve all our problems. He had been slipping away from me for awhile. It was a wonder that we had started a relationship in the first place. He was successful, handsome, polished and intelligent. I was a college drop out, self deprecating, clumsy, and had an unhealthy obsession with TV marathons.

It wasn’t my hair I was tired of. It was me. I was just tired of being me. I thought of the women that look like they walk out of a salon everyday. They have degrees and know where they’re going and how to get there. They are experts at flirting and getting men’s attention. They have grace and elegance. Men love them. The confidence radiates from them. These women don’t trip over their own feet or run into random objects in their paths. They don’t waste hours wondering if they’re going to break up Jim and Pam on The Office, or get excited when they hear a pun joke. They don’t spill coffee on themselves…everyday, and these women never, ever get curling irons stuck in their hair.

I just kept weeping. I would never be that woman. No matter how much he wanted me to. Every time I tried, I failed. I was trapped being myself. He says I’m enough. I am the one he wants to be with and I make him happy. But, his distancing and disappointed looks spoke louder than his words.

Finally, after ten minutes I composed myself enough to make it to the car and took off towards my mom’s office. There I was driving down I-430, letting out a string of curse words directed at me and my hair, weeping, and tugging at the stubborn iron (that had become an extension of my head) with one hand, and driving with the other hand. When those in the cars driving beside me looked at me with their “what in the …” looks I’d shoot them the meanest ‘go to hell’ look I could muster up. Couldn’t they see I was having a moment?

It was somewhere over the river bridge that my hair was freed. Somehow all the tugging, cursing, weeping, yanking and ‘why me’s’ had loosened the curling iron’s grip. I instantly felt stupid. I couldn’t believe I had a near mental break down because of a curling iron. I called my mom and canceled ‘Operation Hair Rescue’ and took the next exit back towards my house.

While driving back I thought of my ‘episode’. It was then I realized that I wasn’t sure if I was truly upset because I was tired of being me or if it was because I missed who I used to be. I never took myself too seriously before. I liked having the funny stories. Each day could easily be an I Love Lucy episode, and I liked that. It set me apart and it taught me how to laugh at myself. I used to think of it as a gift. But, lately I started to resent it. Trying so hard to be who I wasn’t, I lost a bit of who I actually am.

I was sad again. Because that meant I had to give something up; him or myself. I couldn’t have both. And at that moment on I-430, after an exhausting battle with a curling iron, I honestly couldn’t decide which to give up. My cell phone rang. It was him. “Where are you?” he asked concerned. I proceeded to tell him about my adventure with the curling iron and my hair, sans the mental breakdown. After a moment’s pause, he said “Lordy. Only you.” I let out a sigh and replied, “I know”.