…Maybe we were never really cool at all.
Last night I was watching television when the Air Curler infomercial came on. I started to get this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. What’s so wrong about a machine that, with no effort on your behalf, quickly leaves you with a head of perfect curls? OK yeah, it’s probably bogus, but what’s with the twisting and turning in my stomach?
It’s 30 seconds in and my palms start to get warm and moist. I’m uncomfortable. I can’t stay seated. I close my eyes and picture myself calming down, but the simulation is not calm. It’s, in fact, younger me. Younger Me is petrified. Twisted in the long locks of her golden hair is a mess of snarls and regret… the Twist-A-Braid.
When I was seven years old, I received the (now loathsome) machine from my aunt. We were up until the wee hours of the night trying to weave my hair in and out of the hooks and claws of the animal. I went to school the next day with hair up to my ears.
In order to overcome this recent recollection, I decided it was time to face my fear.
Lo and behold, another night of hair detangler and tears… some things in life just don’t deserve a second chance.