I’ve been forced to come to terms with the type of hair I have. A day when I don’t severely resemble Hagrid from Harry Potter is a good day in my book. People try to comfort me with comments like, “Your hair is great, it’s just super thick.” or “I wish I had the body that your hair does!”. No, no you don’t. You’re just trying to think of a decent compliment for this mysterious creature growing out of my head. It’s alright, I’ve come to terms with it. I’ve even named it. I like to call it Risky Frizzness.

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In a perfect world, the adjectives I would use to describe my hair might be voluminous, glossy, smooth, and silky. I watch the Pantene and Loreal commercials and think, Alright, this is the product. This will be the one that transforms the nest of chaos sitting atop my head. Time and time again, the frizz prevails. Even the utterance of the word “humidity” will send the ends of my hair in different directions. I wish I could call it natural beach waves, but in reality I just look like I stuck my finger in an electrical socket.

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Now, I do manage to sleek my beastly ‘do down with the help of high-temperature styling products. I’d like to give a major shout out to my Chi straightener, without which I might not have any friends. But even the magical powers of the Chi are no match for hot summer days, crowded parties, sweaty bars, and outdoor sports games. The slightest bit of sweat and I go from Jennifer Anniston to the Lion King in 10 seconds. And please, don’t try to sell me on the various salon relaxation treatments that cost hundreds of dollars and require consistent upkeep. I’m sure those work, but they’re meant for rich celebrities with angelic faces and their own personal stylists. I am a broke, average looking college student and if it comes down to it, I’ll stuff my troubles under a ball cap and call it a day.

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Don’t get me wrong, I am appreciative of my hair’s thickness. Heck, even the color of my hair pleases me since I finally started dying it the way I like it. And on very rare occasions, the hair gods smile down on me and my natural hair doesn’t look half bad. I just cannot help but feel insanely jealous of the girls who walk through a crowded party or can sit outside at a baseball game and can keep their mane under control.

Why can’t I be the girl who takes a shower, blow dries my hair, and is done styling for the day? No serums, no creams, no high-heat flat irons. Just me and my naturally perfect locks, free of flyaways and poof. I ask myself this question often (mainly when I’m feeling too lazy to get ready in the morning) and I think after years of complaining I have finally developed a logical answer: only a personality as big as mine can handle this lion’s mane. Regardless of how accurate this statement actually is, sometimes it manages to give me a small amount of comfort.

Sure, it’s a struggle dealing with a mop like this. Every now and then, I need a venting session like the one above that you just forced yourself to read. I have even considered shaving my head a few times and that option still isn’t completely off the table. In reality, I just have to rock what I got. There are plenty of balding people in this world who would kill to have any hair at all. Sure, this ‘do is a pain 99 percent of the time, but it’s all I’ve got so how bad is a little extra fluff? After all, if I’m gonna have an enormously awesome life, I might as well have some enormously awesome hair to match. If Beyonce rocks it, how bad of a style can it be?

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