When I’m not happy with my hair, nothing else matters. I am acutely fixated on the not-goodness of my hair. I tried lightening it to a brown color, forgetting how stubborn my hair is about staying black. It is now a patchy brown and black with gold streaks. It is dry and dull looking. Hair hair hair hair hair hair hair hair.

My husband says I’m just tripping, my hair looks fine. Today I saw my brother-in-law who observed: “I like your hair better black!” before I even had time to register my hair complaint.

Nothing I do will ever restore my hair to its former state. I have made a blunder of unfathomable proportions. No one will ever love me again. I am shit. I am less than shit, I am the shit with bad hair. I am a Greek tragedy, taken down by my own vanity like Narcissus. The gods are laughing about my hair. They’re going, “Haha, look what that stupid bitch did to her hair! She asked for it!”

I will spend a fortune that I don’t even have on hair conditioners that promise impossible results. I will scrutinize my hair for signs of breakage. I will hate every woman with shiny hair. (WendyB, put on a turban!) I will be humbled by the bald heads of courageous chemo-therapy patients. Then I will return to feeling bad about my awful brownish hair.