I have never had my hair done. Trust me, I don’t know how it happened either. My life, as far as my tresses are concerned, has devolved into a series of quarter inch trims and biweekly at home conditioning treatments. Not one pause for a dramatic updo, sweeping french twist, or even a softly curled blowout. All formal events are signaled by a few twists of my own curling iron and a halo of flexible hold. For a long time I didn’t even realize how sad this was. I happily straightened my own hair for my senior prom and slapped on some sparkly eye shadow without ever recognizing what my hair could have been. The pictures forever thrown into obscurity by the indeterminate consequence of my stylistic ignorance.

But now, in a world full of Drybar and Blow Bar, the time has come to have someone lay hands upon the virgin strands. I don’t need to leave enough time to mess up and start over again. The back will finally look as good as the front. I’ve been getting by for way too long on naturally decent and shiny hair. Aside from some, practically requisite, questionable highlights when I was sixteen, my hair has been its natural color and texture every single day. The madness must stop. Hair must meet blow dryer, and styling creme, and their good friend boar bristle brush. Just once, at least.

I may not have any movie premieres or palace functions to attend, but there’s nothing that says I can’t look like I do. Having your hair styled is a feminine right of passage that I somehow bypassed, and now I find myself, in my twenties, still reaching for the ceramic wand every time I get a wedding invitation in the mail. Holding it over my head for twenty seconds while simultaneously applying a second coat of melting mascara, when I could be sipping champagne and reading about how to wear a peplum while someone else handles it. Time for this princess to get some practice in.