Me and Maggie Pollack, a sweet one-year-old who is no relation to me, and definitely not my grandchild, so don’t ask.
Photo Credit: Her mother

My life changed a few weeks ago when my San Francisco–area sister visited me. She’s beautiful and fashionable, and bossy. She persuaded me, against my better judgment, to straighten my hair with a flat iron.

In all fairness, I was hesitant for a good reason. Many years ago, when we were in our twenties, and happened to be visiting our parents at the same time, I mentioned that I loved her haircut. She told me that she had cut it herself, and offered to cut mine. I accepted her offer and, for some reason that I can’t recall, we decided to have my hair cut in our parents’ backyard. She brought out a chair, I sat down, and she cut my hair. Then she decided that we should go inside, so that she could use hot curlers and a curling iron. When she was finished, my hair looked pretty good. Only after I had returned home, and washed my hair, did I discover what a hack job she had done. I had a badly cut mullet. Now I knew why she had used all of those hair tools—to camouflage the mess that she had made of my hair.

This time around, I agreed to let her straighten my hair, as long as it was temporary, and no scissors were involved. When she was finished with the flat iron, and an array of gels and sprays, I was thrilled with my new look. My sister assured me that my new style made me look more youthful and fashionable. After she left, I washed my hair and re-straightened it with the flat iron that she had considerately left with me. I didn’t use any of the gels or sprays, just to make sure that they weren’t another cover-up tactic. They weren’t. My hair looked fabulous. I jumped in the car, went over to my BFF-CT’s house, and asked her opinion. She loved my hairstyle, too.

That clinched it. I was going to keep this style for a long time. I made an appointment at a local salon and had my hair chemically straightened. That weekend, I went to a party and encouraged people to take my picture. I couldn’t wait to see how I looked in photos.

The next day, I was sent pictures of myself from the party. My hair looked wonderful. The male-pattern-baldness, that my hairstyle displayed, did not. I had no idea that my hairline was receding. Apparently, my waves and curls had previously covered it up. There was only one thing to do— head immediately to the bathroom to find hot curlers and a curling iron.

Will I never learn?