“It’s not gunna kill you.” You tell me with a laugh following your sentence as you plug the straightening device into the wall and I watch as you turn it on. “I know but it’s scary.” I argue back.

I’m sat at your vanity as you stand behind me like a true hairdresser. You aren’t a hairdresser, by the way, which makes this situation a lot more scarier. You grab a pink claw clip and part my hair into two different sections.

You grab the steaming device and grab a brush too, beginning to straighten my extremely frizzy hair because you just brushed out my fresh curls.

“It’s burning my scalp.” I complain, but you’re not interested at all.