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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