The Art of Compromise. And Hair.

My idea of a good compromise: When Mango makes dinner and then I say I'll do the dishes but get too caught up in whatever sports game we're watching so he takes them to the sink and when I get up to help he says "sit down, you know you don't have to lift a finger here." (He literally says this, I think it might be part ironic but whatevers)

My idea of a not-so-good compromise: What happened to my hair over winter break.

Let me start at the beginning. If you've known me for a period of over two weeks you'll probably know that my hair is the bane of my existence. I'll complain about it for a few months, then I'll cut it, then I'll complain about it for a week, then I'll be reasonably satisfied with it for two months, then the process will start all over again.

This is because my hair is the most contrary thing ever. Like if if my hair were a child it'd be the kind of child who would knock all the items off a supermarket shelf and shriek while you frantically try to hide all the broken bottles before security arrives. Or if it were a preteen it'd be the kind who'd dye its hair the opposite of its natural color and get an eyelid piercing and use red paint to cover its walls in bad poetry. If it were an ex-girlfriend it'd be the kind who would steal all your forks.

So you get the point. Basically my hair sucks. And what I did to it over winter break did not help.

We were in Taiwan, a place known to me as home of good, plentiful food, generous uncles and cheap cosmetic procedures. My mom, you might remember, is fairly concerned over my appearance (refer to any post on dieting). I mean, she's not like a pushy crazy mother, like the kind you see on Toddlers and Tiaras. But I think in general she's just kind of girly, which would put her girliness level at wayy above mine, so we have some disagreements.

Like in Taiwan. She really, really, reeeally wanted me to get my hair straightened. Like the way she put it, it was like her main goal in life for the foreseeable future.

I did not want my hair straightened. First of all, remember how my hair sucks? It does not listen to damaging salon straightenings. I had done that to my hair once and three days later it was waving like a beauty contest winner at the town's annual parade. My mom dragged me back to the salon and demanded to know what happened. The lady who did my hair examined my head, prodded a little, and announced, "It's not our fault. That's just the way her hair is."

So I did not see why this time would be any better. My mom, however, had her own opinion. "Technology has improved," she insisted. "It's going to be successful this time."

It was not.

I admit that this was partly my fault. Instead of getting straightened hair that would plaster to my head and make me look like a basset hound, I wanted something kind of not like that at all. I wanted the kind of weird little crimpy hair things that I can't adequately describe but is basically the opposite of a straightening. The overly-diplomatic stylist thought it would be a good idea for my mother and I to not have a smack-down fight in the middle of his salon, so he made the suggestion that he would just straighten the TOP part of my hair, and then if I so desired I could crimp the bottom part to my heart's content.

I feel like visual aids are in order.

Option #1:

Option #2:

And of course, what actually happened:

So now what's happened is that my hair is half really flat and half really sticky-out-in-different-directions and basically wholly awful.