I have a serious case of the Thick Hair Blues. Actually, I don't have thick hair at all; I have a ton of really fine hair, but still, I can definitely relate with anyone who has ever broken a plastic comb or wooden-handled brush before. I understand some of you more thin-haired readers out there might envy how my ponytails have a 3" diameter, but envy no more. Having a lot of hair is a curse. Every morning, I wake up, look into my mirror to see how bad my hair is judging it on a scale of the cowardly lion from the Wizard of Oz to Phil Spector, violently brush the little Ewok on my head, abuse my brush, and then curl the frizzy mop using a flat iron. Not only do I have a lot of hair, it's completely damaged due to the constant flat iron treatment, the two perms I got this summer (my hair was resistant; FML) and the 197,000 times I've box-colored/bleached my hair (read number 10 on this to see how cheap I am) in the past six years. It's frizzy as hell. Keep in mind, on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, I have a class at nine o'clock. I wake up at seven, get dressed, change ten times, put on make-up, and THEN I start do my hair. Granted, I can curl it in approximately ten minutes (my record is six) but still. I have to work fast to get this mop looking decent. One time about a year ago, I got so burnt out of having to do stuff to my hair all the time, I cut it all off. The hair dresser cut it way shorter than I expected, and I looked like a dude. I had to start dressing girly and wearing bows in my hair to keep people from thinking I had a penis. Some friends even started calling me androgynous names like Sam(uel) and Victor(ia). Assholes. It was awful. So, I'm never doing that again. Anyway, I'm trying to learn to appreciate, or even love, my thick hair. It's definitely going to be a battle.