People have always told me how lucky I am to have blonde, thick, wavy (frizzy) hair. "You are so lucky," my flat-haired friends would say. Little did they know the struggle I went through daily, trying to avoid "mushroom head" during the years I had that cute little bob. Or, during the long-haired years, the 50 minutes I would spend before school blow-drying it on "High", sweating like Whitney Houston during a coked out performance of "I Wanna Dance With Somebody."
Today, thanks to the miracle-invention of the flat-iron, I am able to tame my "big hair." On occasional lazy days I may forgo the flat iron, resulting in a look similar to a bleach blonde, female, Peter Frampton circa 1977. For the most part, I am attached to the hip with my flat iron. I am perplexed each morning however, when I wake up (after having perfectly straight hair the day before) looking like I just stepped out of a New Jersey night club in 1986. Overnight, my hair somehow metamorphosizes (yes, I know this is not a real word!) into the "Lita Ford Do" - think back to the video for "Close My Eyes Forever" she did with Ozzy Osborne and you'll get the picture. Seriously, I could wake up, throw on some heavy eyeliner, hightail it to a Ratt concert and I'd fit right in.
"Oh, you're exaggerating, " some might say. "Surely your morning hair isn't that bad." To those doubters I tell them about the morning I rolled out of bed and went in to wake up my 12 year-old son for school. He sat up in bed and immediately said, "You look like Heather." Who's Heather, you might ask. Could he have been comparing me to that hot, never-aging MILF Heather Locklear? Oh no, he was referring to one of the Rock Chick skanks from Season One of "Rock of Love." That's right, my son likened me to a ho-bag on a reality show trying to win the love of badly-aging Rock Star, Brett Michaels. Sadly, Heather didn't even win. Slutty Heather came in second place, beaten out by a much classier girl with hot pink streaks in her hair.