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"  Some girls have fabulous legs. Others have full, sexy lips. For me, it&amp;#039;s my long, voluminous hair. It cascades around my shoulders in smooth, shiny waves, bouncing as I walk\u2014well, that is, after it&amp;#039;s been blown into submission at the salon. I got my first blowout back in high school. I still recall the feeling of my newly sleek style (the exact opposite of my naturally frizzy texture) gliding between my fingers. After attending a fancy event that night\u2014and hearing words like polished, mature, and sophisticated on repeat (to describe my mane and manner)\u2014I realized that, right or wrong, people judge you on your hair. My wild style had been falsely advertising a disorganized, unreliable mess, when in truth, I&amp;#039;m someone who almost always arrives on time and juggles a million things at once. That blowout instantly gave me control and sent the &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;ve got it together&amp;quot; message loud and clear. Which is exactly why, when I started my career as a writer 10 years ago, I wouldn&amp;#039;t dream of heading into a major meeting without a fresh one. The one time I couldn&amp;#039;t squeeze in a blowout before a presentation, I showed up so self-conscious, I could barely look my boss in the eyes. When a Yale University study confirmed what I&amp;#039;d known for years\u2014bad hair days lower self-esteem and increase insecurity\u2014blowouts officially became my confidence weapon. Then came the blow-dry-bar trend. I was an early adopter of chains like Drybar, Blow, and DreamDry, which started gaining traction about five years ago. Before them, blowouts had been elusive\u2014almost never on a salon&amp;#039;s service list\u2014and pricey, costing upward of $80. But at the bar, blowouts are the main event with a going rate of just $40. So I started going every week! I&amp;#039;d spill in looking frazzled and strut out ready to conquer the world. Soon, I was obsessed with the transformation\u2026and maintaining it. For example, I live in a high state of anxiety about getting my hair wet or sweaty. A few drops of H2O makes it kink, so at the pool, I&amp;#039;m that girl roasting on the edge when it&amp;#039;s 100 degrees. Steamy sex on Mondays\u2026aka blowout day? Forget it. (Ridiculous, I know.) Even my exercise schedule suffers: I fell in love with spinning last year but couldn&amp;#039;t stand ruining my hair. So I choose perfect hair over a perfect butt, summer swims, and Monday-night orgasms. I just can&amp;#039;t enjoy those things with bad hair. Then there&amp;#039;s my checking account. Forty dollars is one thing for an infrequent indulgence, but last year, I was logging up to three blowouts a week. To avoid a car-payment&amp;#039;s worth of salon visits on my Visa, I had to make some changes. Today, I shop less, eat-in more, and only hit the salon on Mondays, eking out four to six days of great hair from that session. Now that I&amp;#039;ve gotten more of a grip, the guilt is mostly gone. (Hey, some people spend way more than $40 a week on their version of therapy!) Yes, I&amp;#039;m hooked, but I feel hotter and happier for it\u2026and Tuesday nights just seem a little more special in my house. Want more from Alyssa? Follow her on Twitter @AlyssaHertzig. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
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