Tangled Memories
I’ve always had long, straight hair. You’d think that would make life easier—no curls to tame, no frizz to battle. But somehow, my straight hair has always managed to find its own special ways to get me tangled in trouble.
And honestly? That theme started way back in childhood.
The Daily Ponytail Pain Olympics
When I was little, Mom took charge of styling my long, straight hair every morning—ponytails, braids, neat little parts. She had a vision, and my job was simply to sit still and survive it. What didn’t help was that even as a kid (and still now), I couldn’t stand “sticky-outies.” Every single hair needed to be smooth, tight, and perfectly in place. One little piece sticking out of a ponytail could send me into full hysterics, and Mom would have to stop everything and fix it before I could function again.
Mom would grab the brush and immediately begin working like she was on a mission. I’d wince, pout, or try to subtly shrink away from the next swipe. Naturally, the more I reacted, the firmer her brushing became.
Eventually came the line every child of the 70s and 80s heard at least once:
“If you think THAT hurts—I’ll show you something that really hurts…”
Instant compliance.
Instant stillness.
Instant fear.
And while she never threw a brush at me, I do remember a couple of brushes being launched out of sheer frustration—one even broke after hitting the doorframe.
But in the end, I always walked out with perfectly tight ponytails and slightly watery eyes, fully aware of the universal childhood truth: beauty is pain—and Mom absolutely meant business.
The Bath Bead Disaster
By the time I graduated to wearing my long, straight hair down every day—the kind that looks simple but is secretly high-maintenance—I had apparently not yet learned that hair and “fancy bath products” don’t always mix.
One night, feeling extra grown-up, I dumped a handful of bath beads into the tub. They melted into the water like tiny pearls of luxury, and I soaked like I was starring in a spa commercial.
The next morning, I woke up with hair that looked like it had been dunked in a deep fryer. My long hair was coated in a layer of oil so thick it could’ve doubled as a Slip ’N Slide.
I didn’t walk calmly to find Mom—I burst out of the bathroom screaming, absolutely horrified. Mom took one look at the slick disaster clinging to my head and knew this was going to take more than a quick fix.
First came the emergency rewash, scrubbing like we were trying to reverse a science experiment gone wrong. When that only helped a little, Mom called in reinforcements.
Dad arrived with a blow dryer.
Mom grabbed another.
Suddenly, I had a full parental emergency response team surrounding me—each aiming hot air at my head like they were drying a soaked beach towel with a hairdryer five minutes before checkout.
Miraculously, they got me presentable enough for school. I still smelled faintly of bath beads well into the afternoon.
The Curling Iron Catastrophe
Then came the teenage years—back when long hair and dance pictures were a dangerous combination.
A friend offered to help curl my hair (a decision we both regretted immediately). She grabbed one of those brush-style curling irons—the notorious kind designed to betray you—and confidently rolled a section all the way up to my scalp.
Instant regret.
Immediate dread.
Zero escape.
We tugged.
We twisted.
We reverse-rolled.
We panicked.
We even whispered about scissors.
Finally, when it became clear the curling iron was not coming out, I did the only reasonable thing—I grabbed the phone and hysterically called Mom, half-crying and half-yelling, begging her to tell us what to do. Her calm, mom-logic solution? Baby oil. So we slathered and massaged until the curling iron finally surrendered and slid free.
At that point, there was no time to rewash or restyle anything. I ended up going to dance pictures with beautiful curls in the front… and a greasy mess in the back.
But hey—I made it to the photos.
The Real Meaning of “Tangled”
Looking back, these moments make me laugh—but they also show how often life behaves exactly like my hair did.
Sometimes “tangled” means a childhood ponytail battle.
Sometimes it means a bath bead disaster.
Sometimes it means a curling iron stuck to your scalp like a barnacle.
But sometimes it just means this:
Life gets knotted, messy, overwhelming, and a little dramatic.
And then—just like Mom, Dad, and that bottle of baby oil—we figure it out.
We get untangled.
We move on.
We collect stories that get funnier with time.
My hair may have tested my patience, my pain tolerance, and my sanity…
but it sure gave me some great stories to tell.
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