I’m convinced that my hair and I were genetically mismatched . Considering the randomness of nature, it’s not unrealistic to believe my conception could have been affected by some cosmic hiccup, causing the original genetic lineup to be re-routed, resulting in this functionally odd pairing. Maybe this is the same hiccup that causes people to have two different colored eyes, or webbed feet or that unusual ability to tie cherry stems into knots using only the tongue.

The saga began when I was just a toddler. According to my parents, I was a precocious child, who excelled in the arts of skipping, jumping, drawing and counting. But, my parents grew concerned when, after my second birthday, I had yet to grow any hair. They feared that I might go skipping through life with a bald head.

A few months later, my parents were relieved when my head began sprouting a mass of blonde curls. At the time, it would appear that this sudden profusion of hair was a healthy response to having languished in dormancy for so long. But, now, I know the truth. This was the prelude to living with the paradox that is my hair.

Though my hair was as fine as cotton candy, it grew in rapid abundance, causing the sticky strands to snarl exponentially, eventually forming into massive clumps. It didn’t take long for me to equate having my hair brushed to medieval torture. I gained supernatural strength whenever an adult dared to come at me with a hairbrush. It usually required at least two adults to restrain my 30 pounds of hysteria. After a few years of this, my mother decided it was worth the risk to attack my hair with scissors. The result was a tradeoff, tangles replaced by hair the shape of a giant triangle.

As a teenager I continued to battle the unruly nature of my hair, enjoying occasional success. Armed with dyes, hot rollers and curling irons, I launched a counterattack, transforming my hair into a beautiful blonde attention-getter. Appearance alone would indicate that I had finally achieved mastery over my hair, but that was an illusion. As I spent hours altering and manipulating my hair, it started taking over my life. After a few years of this, I grew tired of forfeiting hours of my days to an unworthy cause, so in a fit of impulsiveness, I chopped off my long mane into an androgynous ear length do. Needless to say, the new style didn’t help my popularity. At least not with men.

Since that drastic haircut, my hair has stayed fairly short. I’ve dyed it different colors. I’ve worn it curly as well as straight. But, as hard as I’ve tried, I still consider my hair to be my worst physical feature. And yet, despite the animosity, after experiencing some recent hair loss due to cancer treatment, I am surprised and almost ashamed by the intensity of my grief. Though I can wear a nice wig and go in public without feeling ashamed, I still can’t hide my devastation. It’s true that I have never been able to control my hair, which has caused me endless frustration, but it pales in comparison to the frustrating realization that I was never supposed to be in control of my hair or anything else, for that matter. And, it was never supposed to be a battle. Not a fair one, anyway.
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See that picture over there? The one on my profile? That's not really me. It's just a visual bite of me, an innocent-looking caricature, if you will. That photo has attracted 6,630 viewers on a certain dating website, and has culminated in only three, count them, three, face-to-face encounters. In summary, encounter number one resulted in a decent night of fun, but no follow-up. Encounter number two turned into a nice little friendship. And, we can thank number three for forcing me to enter the witness protection program.

After four months and hundreds of hits from old guys sporting '70s-style, porn star mustaches, yesterday, my e-mail alert went from bow-chicka-bow to ding ding ding, we have a winner! Or so I thought. I smiled when I read an e-mail from Amassabor24, a hot, young, snowboarder who enjoyed playing chess and, as far as I could tell, was gainfully employed. Did I mention that he was young? Did I mention how young? Let's just say, he and my son have a lot in common, including the decade of their birth. Allow me to share with you, my reply.

**Dear Ambassador 24: I want to thank you for providing inspiration for the next revision to my profile in which I plan to challenge the Prince of Darkness (Satan, not Ozzie) for condemning me to the depths of Hell, otherwise known as Match.com. You see, Ambassador, eternal suffering in itself is not Hell. Hell is defined as having your desires deceptively close, but eternally beyond your grasp.  For example, in your case, Hell could be meeting a beautiful, chess player with a nice rack and a sex addiction. She's the perfect woman, until you discover she has converted her spare room into a shrine devoted to you, complete with hair dolls and some impressive artwork fashioned out of your toenail clippings and belly button lint. For me, Hell could be meeting a rich, good-looking man my own age, with no mustache, who happens to live in Estonia. With his mom. Or, more realistically, my Hell is receiving an email from someone as cute as you, knowing that nature is playing another hilarious age joke on me. I've spent way too much of my limited time on this reply, but the point I'm trying to make is, you're like a yummy ice cream sundae, but  I'm lactose intolerant, and that pisses me off. **

He didn't write back. I'm still single. Was it something I said?