Breaking In the Curling Iron

This week Amanda told me I had to curl my hair.
Me: But, I don't have time for that in the morning.
Amanda: Come on. Don't make excuses.
I tried arguing more, but she fixed me with a stern look and I knew there was nothing I could do.

The part that surprised me was my resistance to the idea. Here we are, only a week into the experiment, and I'm already trying to dig my heels in?
Me: Fine, I'll do it.
Amanda: Good. Do it Wednesday.

I debated. I could always "forget" and skip it. But, like I reminded myself, this whole thing was my idea. It's hardly much of an adventure if I wuss out and start making excuses, is it? Which isn't to say that I liked the idea, just that I'd made the promise to myself that I'd see it through.

Wednesday morning I pulled myself out of bed early and got out the curling iron I've had for at least three years now without using it once. It still had the plastic covering on the prongs. I think the last time I curled my hair was when I went to prom in high school. I did the best I could, managing a little curl at the ends, but nothing more than that.

When I saw Amanda, she hardly noticed I'd done it at all. She quickly promised to show me how to do it right and to show me which products I needed to get the hold, etc. "It'll be great," she promised.

So, I'll admit, even though the curl was subtle, it did make me feel more feminine. I'm fairly vain about my hair, despite not investing a lot of effort in styling it, and Wednesday it looked nice. There was even a little voice in my head saying, "Look! It's pretty." Not quite pretty enough for me to attempt it again on Thursday or Friday, mind you, but it wasn't too bad.