"Here I Am. This is me." (~ Bryan Adams)

I have a secret.  Most guys won’t find this monumental, but gals will understand the importance.  I can’t use a curling iron.

Let me rephrase that.  On the few occasions I’ve attempted to use a curling iron, the results go beyond disastrous.  Since I can’t enslave my layered, wavy tresses into the curling iron with any precision, wild hair ends sprout out and erupt in all directions when I unleash the barrel.  I look like I have stuck my finger into a light socket.  Perhaps you’ve seen pictures of mad scientists, or pictures of folks with hair attacked by static electricity – they have nothing on me.  You could rat my hair to its highest, and spray it, but not even that can compare to my curling iron coiffeur.  Each hair on my head springs out of the curling iron into an individual stance, all pointing a different way.  Kids and cats usually run at the mere sight of me emerging from a session with my curling iron.

This week then, when my hairdresser, Michelle, had fixed my hair…with her curling iron, I received 17 compliments about my hair at work from gals as well as guys.  “Your hair looks great!”  “I like your hair.” “Wow!” 

Yes, one day every five weeks, my hair looks wonderful…because Michelle does it.  The other 34 days, I fix my own hair.  I do not use a curling iron.  I cheat, and I use a heated curling brush instead.  That’s the best I can do, and obviously, my hair does not look nearly as good, but I’ve tried.  I have my own Cindy style of wild Irish hair, tamed down a bit with the heated curling brush.  On the days I fix my own hair, my only consolation at my lack of curling iron skills is that, at least, I don’t look like an electrified Bichon Frise.