“It’s. Just. Not. Right!” I breathed through clenched teeth. My hands tangled with the rats’ nest I was forced to call my lovely hair. Sure, it wasn’t as bad as those lemon heads with their platinum blond highlights and sickly yellow color, but still, I was a close second.

The dark brown color was far from the “chocolate” and “chestnut” I’ve read in so many of my beloved stories. No, it was nothing of the sort. Instead it was an exciting dark brown! And by exciting, I mean boring. It wasn’t even straight! Those damned frizzy curls poofed at the first sign of moisture, and my splits ends, don’t even get me started!

Why couldn’t I have perfect hair like all my brunette friends? Their shiny, smooth hair literally glistened in the sun. And how it felt between my fingertips! Soft like silk, I gorged myself on delicious hair. Friends were accommodating with my dilemma; they gladly allowed me to braid and style the beautiful hair that I lacked.

But not the blonds. They could rot in Hell.

My closest friend even helped me get a job at the local hair salon. Sure, the owner won’t let me touch any of her clients because I’m an “obsessed psychopath that’s just waiting to explode at any moment,” but I think she’s exaggerating a bit.

My job is fantastic! They let me sweep all of the hair that falls to the ground. The customers are so lively, and they’re great people to talk to. It seems as if their hair embodies their very spirit. I’ve spent countless hours after my shift –even going so far as to miss my next class or two- to sit around and collect hair.

No one knows about my little secret. Any hair that I sweep goes straight to my house. I have a shrine with all the glorious hair, and each night, I’m fortunate enough to gaze upon it. I brush it each night, condition all of the individual strands; I do everything to make the hair look its best. If my own hair can’t be perfect, then my hair shrine has to make up for it.

Except for the blond hair. I burn that hair straight to Hell.