I stared in the mirror this morning willing my hair to do what I wanted. This is a common occurrence, going on for years and years. Some days a miracle happens and it looks nice, but more often than not, I call my fine, straight hair, lots of terrible names. My book of negatives and positives says at least I have hair and for that I am truly grateful. There’s lots of gray, but at least it wasn’t all gray at the age of 40, like my mom. Getting angry accomplishes nothing because my hair doesn’t fear my anger and therefore does whatever it wants. I’ve paid good money to get haircuts I hate a few days later, so I started cutting my own hair. It isn’t the greatest style, but it’s free. Why do I care about how my hair looks? Who knows, something totally unexpected could happen and I could meet a guy who just might like me. But my conclusion this morning was it doesn’t matter if my hair looks amazing, because if it matters to the guy I meet, he’s not the guy for me. Now I just have to make myself believe it!