I was supposed to be writing a fabulous, genius-piece short story.  Instead, I stared at the cursor while it blinked at me.  I had a great story about a princess in mind but the fire is gone and everything I’ve written is now erased.   Which just makes me more frustrated because I have a project I want to complete.  But…blink, blink, blink.

So, I decided to take a nice warm shower to relax and get the creative juices flowing.   Still nothing.  I washed my hair and ran my fingers through my hair.  At least, tried to.  My hair has always been the bane of my existence.  You may think I’m prone to hyperbole but I’m not.  I’ve had three good hair days my entire life and I’ve been alive for a few more than three days.  

The first good hair day occurred when my sister-in-law, CC, gave me a makeover.  I was fifteen and for the first time, felt like a looker.  And, to be honest, I was. 

The second good hair day happened when I got primped for senior pictures.  I went to church the next day and one of my friends asked, “Did your sister-in-law help you with your hair?”

“No,” I said. 

“Oh,” she replied, “you just look so…” she caught herself.  “Your hair just looks like she did it.”  Nice save.

The third good hair day happened just a couple years ago.  I discovered I don’t have one good picture of me.  Being single, I never got the fancy wedding pictures.  So, I had glam pictures done.  Don’t mock.  Someday, I’m going to need a video of my life done and I wanted at least one good picture.

Perhaps you noticed the common denominator for all three days.  Somebody else styled my hair.  Long ago I realized I’m missing that crucial gene most girls have that help them do their hair.  That’s one of the reasons I want to become stinkin’ rich.  A stylist would be on my payroll.  That and I’d like to get me an island.  Let’s face it, I just want to upgrade my odd status to eccentric.

But I digress.  Let’s recap, I was in the shower supposed to be coming up with a doozy of a short story.  I ran my fingers through my hair and that’s when I realized:  I have a mullet.  I’m pretty sure that’s not what I asked for the last time I got my hair done.  I made a mental note to find a picture as an example to take.  Obviously, I have trouble communicating verbally what I want because this is not what I want.

I have a small round face and my hair grows in thick.  When it’s long, I resemble a Chia pet. 

When it’s short, I look like someone who needs help grooming (which I guess I just proved I do).   A long time ago I noticed a discrepancy between what I see in the mirror (cute) and what I see in photos (oh dear).  I hoped the mirror was the more accurate of the two.  But then I noticed everyone else in a photo looks like themselves (dang me).  Now, don’t get me wrong.  I think I have a lot of potential.  For example, I have a very cute nose of which I’m very grateful.  I just have trouble assembling all my potential together into a cute package.

Here’s hoping I get my windfall soon.  Because if I get my own island, it won’t matter what my hair looks like.