On big hair.
I was born in 1976, which means that I was of an age to care intensely about my hair and what other people thought about it from about 1987-1992. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this point in time, it was an era of Really Big Hair. Spiral perms, curling irons, crimping irons, industrial amounts of aerosol hairspray, gel, mousse, spray gel, and every other form of smelly/tacky/crunchy/sticky hair fixative available were necessary if one was to appear marginally acceptable to one’s peers.
Because fashion is inherently unfair, my genetic legacy is hair that is straighter than George Clooney. It requires ozone-layer-destroying levels of chemical assistance if it is to do anything other than obey gravity. In other words, life would have been awesome if I had gone to junior high school circa 2001, but alas, fate had other plans for me. Instead, I spent hours tormenting the stuff growing out of my noggin and still routinely fielded criticisms that it was “stringy,” “flat,” “boring,” and worst of all, “thin." To this day, a part of my brain is still convinced that there is something fundamentally wrong with me because my hair is not naturally curly (or unnaturally, for that matter). This part of my brain is also confused whenever I read something about big curly hair being less than desirable for some dudes whose standards we are apparently supposed to meet by changing every portion of our physical appearance. I suspect this part of my brain also still thinks that songs by Chicago are pretty cool. It may be the result of inhaling all those chlorofluorocarbons back when.