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I think my bathroom mirrors have learned to dissemble.

My own reflection stares out at me, seven times out of 10, with bright eyes, a dewy (otherwise known as oily) complexion and lustrous (also known as oily) hair.

Mysteriously, the minute I sit in a salon chair, I am instantly horrified by the lackluster, frizzy hair that frames my wrinkled, squinty eyes and pockmarked face. The shock is akin to seeing yourself in a swimsuit beneath florescent lights in a public dressing room as opposed to the dim, gentle lighting of your own bedroom hundreds of miles from a beach.

Why can't salon mirrors be like those at the plush lingerie store? Those reflective surfaces are so savvy in their mendacity that we come out honestly believing we look good in a G-string and teddy with fewer threads than a paper napkin. Undoubtedly, they have some kind of special technology that, while reflecting our faces, swaps our bodies out with an idealized, computer-generated version of our 20-year-old selves.

All hairdressers' studios, on the other hand, seem to have mirrors that make our crowning glory look like it's in desperate need of chopping above the ears, a dye job defying all things natural or a partial shave. That's how they rake in the money and convince women to do outrageous things to their heads that cause their husbands to gnash their teeth and their friends to tell bald-faced lies entailing the extravagant use of adjectives such as "cute," "trendy" and "bold."

I have yet to cave in, get a platinum dye job and razor my locks to within an inch of their life, but, believe me, I've thought about it!

My courage to storm ahead in this life with only my God-given body and color survived a stylist who made me cry by telling me very rudely that I could not pull off bangs in my wildest dreams because I had neither the high forehead nor the full hair for it. It survived an anniversary date with my husband when I asked another hairdresser for big, retro waves, and she - defeated in her valiant efforts by my fine, silky locks - made up an excuse to give me a discount and sent me out the door with hair that resembled no-boil lasagna noodles.

I've had my moments at home, too. Every time I try to curl my hair, for instance, I look more and more like Medusa's offspring in both strand texture and facial expression with each twist of the iron. And a blowout? Forget about it! When an acquaintance told me that her enviable blowout would sadly fall flat by the next day, I had to resist the urge to throw a bucket of water on her head! I could do a handstand for three hours in a gallon of hot volumizing mousse, and the minute I righted myself, my hair would flatten against my scalp. Even the professionals with their expensive tools and products can't give me a lift.

One particularly catastrophic Sunday I stormed through my house yelling, "Stop lying to me!" at every member of my family who dared to tell me that my hot mess of a curl job looked good. After an hour spent trying to shape my hair with unrelenting, brutal heat, I at least wanted the satisfaction of hearing my family confess that it looked atrocious. Is there any better way to prepare yourself for church on a Sunday morning, after all, than to point a finger by turns at each of your loved ones, exclaiming, "You're a liar! And you! And you!,"merely because they tried to be kind?

Really, what is it with us women and our hair?

I heard a story about two little girls recently, one with tight, curly hair and the other with stick-straight tresses. They were the best of friends but each wished for what the other had. The curly-haired girl very earnestly said to her friend one day, "When we get to college, I can curl your hair and you can straighten mine."

I suppose that about sums it up, and that is why - no matter what the world comes to - the hair salon and product businesses will never hurt for money from desperate women.

Wait. Did I say desperate? I meant adventurous. And super trendy.

- Hillary Ibarra

Hillary Ibarra has had several humor pieces published on Aiming Low and humorwriters.org and was recently published at Hahas for Hoohas. She is a mother of four who dreams of playing the banjo, living in Jane Austen's childhood home and writing for more than spam artists and 50 loyal readers but can't seem to find them in the laundry. She is the mysterious blogger at No Pens, Pencils, Knives or Scissors. In her spare time she likes to threaten to sell her children to the zoo, and their little dog, too.