My first real hair crisis occurred sometime around sixth grade.  I should blame myself for this disaster, but I think it’s fair to place a bit of responsibility in the hands of the Backstreet Boys.

On a lazy Saturday MTV binge, “Quit Playing Games with My Heart” flashed on the screen for the umpteenth time, and a particular detail about the video caught my eye.

I wanted that hair.  I didn’t rationalize or question it: I wanted the Caesar that swept across the nation in the late 90s along with frosted tips and coordinated dance moves.  However, with my straight and poofy Asian hair, I couldn’t achieve these curled bangs without some help.  Ensured that I was home alone, I went to my parents’ bathroom and plugged in my mother’s curling iron.  I fiddled with a device I’ve never used, pinched a tuft of hair in the clip, rolled, and singed my forehead with that awful, awful machine.  With equal parts shame and singey pain I hastily threw the iron back into the cabinet and lived with the rest of the day with one patch of curled bang, and the rest of the week with a patch of burned skin right below it.