I watched as Lisa (not her real name) flat ironed my new hair straight, meticulously ensuring that every strand was sufficiently seared at a thousand degrees.
"I love messy hair," I said, by way of warning, although she knew me well by now.
I love hair that is perfect," she countered. "Every single strand exactly where it should be."
Perfection is subjective, though, right? Much like beauty is in the eye of the beholder? I didn't argue. I'd been with Lisa long enough to know how this tale would end.
"I'd like my hair to be curled lightly, so that the curls will fall."
"Your curls shouldn't fall," she replied. "I'll do them tight so they last a few days."
I bit my lip. I didn't want to bite me. I wanted to bite her instead. If I'd stated what I wanted, then what was there left to talk about?
When Lisa was done flat ironing my hair, she began to add curls. I watched in awe as Lisa made sure that each curl was just so. Part of the reason for my awe was that I didn't care. Had I not made it clear that I loved messy hair? Pretty sure half of Farrah Fawcett's fame had everything to do with her perfectly un-perfected hair.
I touched a curl.
"Stop it," she snapped. "It's not set."
WTF? It's my hair. My curl. We were clearly having ownership issues.
It seemed as though Lisa spent as much time tweaking as she did styling. When she was all done, my hair looked pretty damned good. It was just missing one thing.
I shook my head from side to side like a woman trying to dislodge a rabid cat clinging to her hair.
"Why would you do that?" Lisa asked, not at all amused.
I smiled. "I needed to get it the way I like it. Now," I said staring back at my reflection with satisfaction because every hair was exactly where it should be: not in its place. "It really is perfect."