The hair straightener was more than a hair straightener. It was a CHI special edition hot-pink flat-iron. It was on sale. I'd never been one of those hair-straightening girls before; my idea of a good hair day was when my unmanageable split end-ridden mass was slicked back in a tight bun, which made me look like an old school teacher. But when I saw that CHI, I knew it would change everything. Designer clothes didn't matter, make-up didn't matter, it was that long, luscious, glossy dark hair that made a person popular and pretty. The CHI could change me. Well, my mom ended up buying it for me, and when we took it home and got it set up I practically peed in my pants. I could see my new self already, gorgeous, a model. People who'd once laughed at me would invite me to their parties. I would have a boyfriend. People would envy me, me with the amazing straight hair. I spend two hours in my room straightening my hair. And when I came out, I looked at the mirror, scrutinized the mirror, peered inside the very glass of the mirror- and still, still! The image was the same. I saw myself. Not some spider-legged supermodel with wide eyes. I saw me. I saw a short, stubby girl with very frizzy bad-looking, albeit straight, hair. I took the CHI back that day, because it wasn't what I had really wanted in the first place. I'm fine with curly hair, it's the nose job I really want.