Some days, I think a decent portion of my life would have gone down a whole lot differently—and by differently, I mean better—if I had just had good hair. And by "good" I mean—and have forever meant—long and flaxen, shiny, and most of all, straight. Such hair enchants and obsesses me. Fortune shines on those with such hair, and nothing, sadly, could be farther from my reality. My hair, left to its natural devices, is corkscrew-curly, a dull shade of brown, and highly prone to frizz. When I was little, my mother kept it short—she took pictures of Shirley Temple to the hairdresser—and my fondest desire was for it to be the exact opposite. I was obsessed with girls who had long hair. I fetishized them. The lengthier and straighter the better. They were exclusively who I wanted to play with at recess; the only babysitters I tolerated. My own mother's hair was straight but only shoulder-length, which I viewed as un-special.
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