And The Prize Goes To … The Most Horrifying Frizzy Hair Experience

We asked you last week to tell us your most horrifying frizzy hair experiences to win a bottle of Avon’s Advanced Techniques Frizz Control Lotus Shield. Your horror stories brought back memories of my own tangled, teased, and terrible curly hair disasters. That being said, my heart did go out to a few readers’ painful hair anecdotes. Check out the winners and their stories after the jump. CreepyPeanut:

My most horrifying frizzy hair moment happened when I was about 4. Back then I had just past chin length and that was too long. My hair, even then, was a monster. While my hair is very fine, I have a lot of it. The bottom forms these luscious think curls naturally while the top layer has areas that refuse to curl. Framing my temples is this extremely fine, tightly curling hair. Now I’m as white as it comes (seriously, I blind people), but this area of hair can only described as nappy. And the entire this will just frizz up at the drop of a hat.

Back to being 4 now.

Mom had decided that since my sister had a school photo that she would be sending out, I needed a portrait too. Hey fair is fair. It’s was the morning of and we were trying to tame my massive hair using a curling iron. Mom didn’t even consider owning a hair straightener, so we used the curling iron. It’s a hot metal object designed for hair; it would eliminate the frizz.

It was a bad combination of Mom rushing, me being a squirrely kid, and using the type of curling iron that had bristles (yes bristles).

The curling iron got stuck to my head.

Well not so much stuck as embedded. I don’t remember that clearly what happened (I’m not even certain about my age during this) but there was crying (both of us) and screaming (again, both parties) and somehow we got the curling iron out and I was made to look more presentable. The picture turned out pretty cute, even with my massive eyebrows (Mom called them my caterpillars, and that’s another beauty story).

Nowadays I wear my hair as a short mess of curls. No more straightening with curling irons. Well, not unless I get bored or feel like looking like a blond Beatle.


Up until fifth grade my hair was strait as a pin. This all changed the summer before middle school when puberty decided I should be a curly girl. I would wake up an hour early just to try and tame it. In seventh grade my mom got the idea to fix my “problem” with a home perm. If we didn’t use perm curlers and just combed it in strait she figured it would act as a relaxer. She was wrong. For two days my hair was beautiful, strait, shiny, and beach blond. I felt like a new person. On the third day I awoke to find that in the night most of my hair had either fallen out or broken off about three inched down. By the time I got out of the shower the drain was clogged with even more hair and I was a wreck. I showed my mom and she stared to cry. She called a friend who was a hair dresser and found out that perms and relaxers are not the same and because my hair was so fine the perm solution had chemically fried it. Mom called school and told them I wouldn’t be in, and then because I looked like a victim of Chernobyl she took me to a hair dresser to see what could be done. It took three years to fully grow back to anything resembling human hair, and I’m still learning how to deal with the curl. I know now it’s better to accentuate it, and I’d rather have hair that’s sometimes frizzy than no hair at all.


I went to a military college, and it was a requirement for all the ladies to have our hair shorter than our collars for the six-week period of freshman indoctrination at school. Now, up until this point in my life, I’d had hair at least halfway down my back, and at some times when I was younger it was so long I could sit on my ponytail. (My mom had a thing about long hair. No bobs for my sister or me, even when we were toddlers.)

And on top of the length, I have a Lot. Of. Hair. Apparently I get it from my grandfather, who still has enough hair to style it like the Fonz even at 80 years old.

In any case, it was a woeful transition from a ten inch braid to a massive triangle of frizz and waves that ended just below my earlobes. My classmates lovingly dubbed it “Yield-Sign Hair.” There was no time to blow-dry, straighten or style in general during basic training (other than hastily scraping hair back into the two hair-clips that regulations allowed). Add to that the eighty-percent humidity of the East Coast and you get a summer of horrendous hair.

I’ve managed to track down most of the photos and squirrel them away … because no girl should ever have to live with Yield Sign Hair…or even look at pictures of it …

Don’t forget to enter this week’s giveaway!