I arrived at my hair salon looking like "Little House on the Prairie." I got out of my mother's car and began speeding towards the entrance of the store. My hair is as stiff as a bad knee when it's raining outside, walkways going in multiple directions, and bobby pins hanging for dear life on strands of hair. It was definitely time for me to get my hair done. I opened the pink spray-painted back door and was inundated with the scents of Moroccan hair products and citrus. As I walked through the narrow hallway that had furballs scattered all over the floor, I was greeted warmly with a “Hey girl!” from my hairdresser Andrea. Who wore the usual dark t-shirt, jeans and tennis shoes; with a black apron to top it off. Then she waved her hand and told me to follow her into the laundry room. On our way to the room we passed several stations where we heard the stylist talk about the salon's new drama between highlight specialists. Along with the radio playing "It's hot in here, so take off all your clothes!" from the surround sound speakers. And the roaring mixture of a hair dryer and spray bottles, I was completely off my prediction because it turns out they were talking about how teachers don't get paid enough in North Carolina. I'm not really good at reading lips; It's never been my specialty. By the time I realized everything that was happening in the room, Andrea had already started straightening my hair. I only noticed this when I suddenly felt what felt like the heat of the sun on my scalp. It burned me slightly, so she didn't realize what she'd done until I gasped and moved my chair. She gently said, “I'm so sorry,” and tried to be as careful as she could from then on. But the rest of the time all I could think about was burning myself again, so tightening flat iron plates was my focus for the remaining fifteen years.