My life is a lot like my hair.
Sometimes I wake up and all it takes is one glance to know it's a mess. So with a sigh, I grab a rod of hot metal and a brush and I clean it up. Tangles are ripped out because anything gentler would take far too much effort. In some places, the hint of a nice wavyness is visible, but it's not enough. It's never enough. So the curling iron presses and molds and exaggerates until the waves comply and become perfect, or near-perfect curls. Then it must be engulfed in a cloud of hairspray, or the curls will fall. Because they are, after all, fake.
No matter how much I use, they always fall out.
But sometimes I wake up and it's baby soft. I start to glide a brush through it, but realize that it would interrupt the angelic waves that already cascade across my shoulders. I brush my fingers across the front to see if they'll scatter, but they only fall gracefully into place, comfortable as they are. So I simply gape at the mirror with 20 extra minutes, unable to believe my luck.
Life is precisely like that.
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