Nothing to fix

I optimistically (and stupidly) purchased a curling iron last summer. I guess I thought that somehow heat and chemicals could change the landscape of my features. I mean, why not, heat and chemicals have changed the landscape of everything else, right? So, it was with great hope that I took the curling iron home (and a bottle of hairspray), plugged it in, and set about making my entire life different.
It should be noted here that I have never, ever, in my entire life, had even a hint of curl in my hair, not even in the middle of a raging storm, on the deck of a sinking ferry on the Irish sea. Not even at a table enshrouded by acid mist at a sidewalk cafe in Paris. Not even in the breezeless, dead, wet heat of the Everglades.
So, it is beyond me why I purchased the curling iron. A girl can dream, I guess, but a smart girl knows better than to think the dream will somehow become the reality. Even as a child, for years, I had long thick braids nearly to my ass. And on the rare occasion that my hair was out of braids, it lay like a lead apron across my back, heavy...and straight.
Needless to say the curling iron worked marvelously...for about 2 minutes. I caught a glimpse of my movie-star alter ego, big curls, sunglasses, red lips, and foolishly thought I could maintain this look all day, maybe even into the next day.
Sure, Nichole, sure. The hair fell, the hairspray dried, and I was left with a nappy mass of brunette and red, straight on top, frizzy on the bottom, and burned from root to tip. And a whole day ahead of me.
I brushed it out and put it in braids for the rest of the summer.
I can't remember why I even bought the thing. What inspired me, a rational, modern, know-myself-better-than-anyone else kinda girl to buy a f*cking curling iron. I'm an indian for Chrissakes. Ever seen a Cherokee with a perm? It ain't pretty.
The iron is now lost in the back of the linen closet. Lost for good, I'm sure, a reminder of my last attempt at trying to fix something that was never broken to begin with.