18 summers

18 summers. EIGHTEEN. That's a pretty long freaking time isn't it? No, I'm not talking about the number of summers we have with our kids. I'm talking about me. Or more specifically, my hair...

...and the number of summers I spent fighting it.

Sometime in high school I learned how to straighten my hair. And from that moment on my curly, wavy locks would become a secret.

A secret that was very hard to keep in the hot, humid summer. But a secret I tried to keep nonetheless.

For eighteen years I subjected myself to blow drying my hair sitting in front of the air conditioning vent. To globs of any anti-frizz goop I could get my hands on. To hair straightener session after hair straightening session. To trying to avoid any and all water getting near my head. And to lots and lots of stress.

All of which was completely worthless, because by the end of the night my hair would be poofy, frizzy, and in a ponytail with baby fuzz hair sticking out like a halo. Which of course always lead to me feeling completely self-conscious, ruining any fun I was, or could have been, having.

A year ago I vowed to myself that I would start caring about me. I started some personal development and I vowed to be true to me, whoever I was.

A very interesting thing happened a few weeks ago. I got out of the shower on a hot, sticky day and looked at my hair dryer. Then I looked at my kids with their beautiful mops of curls. And I decided to stop fighting it.

So here I am. Not giving up on perfect hair, but embracing the gifts I've been given. Embracing the imperfect.

I look forward to rekindling my romance with my hair dryer during the cold months, but for now, I'm going to enjoy my summer fling with mother nature.