Dear Instyler:
It wasn’t me who put you on the floor. And it wasn’t me who stepped on you. But I was there when it all went down. I heard the crack. Was that your beautiful brush feature, or was it my heart?
Every day for the last two years, my hair has been glossy. Smooth. Instyled. I have loved you from the moment I first set eyes on you.
I have not had the strength to throw you away yet. So there you lie on my bathroom floor, a shell of what you once were.
And me? I am but a shell of what I once was. Never again will I have shiny, soft and beautifully controlled locks. I cannot replace you, my dear Instyler, for my children need food more than I need good hair.
Today, I am now known as “The Woman With Bad Hair.”
Goodbye, my love. Goodbye.
Dear Family, Friends and Co-Workers:
For this, I am truly sorry.
