Confession: I'm a former fake-straight girl myself. After years spent struggling with my dark, unruly tangles (think Julianna Margulies crossed with Minnie Driver, plus a dash of Roseanna Roseannadana), I finally succumbed to the timeless allure of what the other half has. I'd had it with the blowouts; I was done with the multi-product concoction I whipped up each morning. I wanted something more organized-looking, more serene, more clean-lined.

I read about the T.R. procedure in a magazine (other names: "ionic reconditioning" or "Japanese straightening"). It sounded like a dream. Upon the urging of a fake-straight-haired girl I'd met at my health club, I decided to go for it.

And for a while, it was fabulous. I had a cascade of tangle-free, blow-in-the-wind straight hair. Hair that didn't require a blow dryer. Hair that could be snapped into a tiny clip at the nape of my neck or tugged into tin barrettes for a cute, if infantile, look.

After six months, I had the roots retouched, and then again after another six. By the third time, I was nearly broke-and so was a huge section at the back of my head. It seemed my speed-addled stylist had made a mistake with the chemicals, which resulted in the loss of a sizable chunk of hair. I spent the next year or so in an awkward interim phase, covering my head with a silky floral scarf or black Kangol hat before attaining my current mane of deliciously crazy dark curls.

As part of my recovery, I've made spotting other people's phony hair into something of a hobby. You should try it!

But first, a few tips:

Much as with nose jobs or breast implants, fake-straight hair often doesn't match the girl. As a dark-haired, pale-skinned girl of Ashkenazi descent, I know which physical traits my people tend to share-and I'd be willing to bet that a petite girl with a sizable honker and a Tiffany bean necklace was usually born with a curl right in the middle of her forehead. It's not always the woman in question who betrays her roots (as it were)-sometimes it's the curly-haired mama trotting along next to her altered Mini-Me who gives it away.

Thermally reconditioned girls handle their new sleek hair differently-with reverence, awe and a certain sensuality. They'll swing it around dramatically, twist it up, then let it fall back down. They'll bundle and unbundle it into perfectly limp ponytails, marveling at how a small rubber band can rein in what used to require a butterfly clip the size of a softball. When you've lived your whole life trying not to touch your hair-hands in curls do the devil's work; they ruin the integrity-being able to finger your hair willy-nilly is mesmerizing and disturbingly satisfying. (I remember sitting at work, running the pads of my fingers up and down, back and forth over the especially silky patches at my temple. Must've looked strange.)

Watch for impossibly straight hair: After thermal reconditioning, your hair can look like uncooked spaghetti attached to a human head. (By the way, I defy you to find a woman with naturally blond or red hair who has undergone the über-straightening. Lizzie Grubman doesn't count-she's a genetic brunette, of course.) A mere blowout, no matter how pricey or thorough, doesn't result in such pin-straight locks. A blowout still leaves body, and should it get wet, it'll instantly curl up.

The cut is also a clue. Blown away by their finally shiny sheaths, most T.R. girls stick with a fairly blunt cut, an extended bob that drapes glassily over the shoulders. You can almost line up a ruler under the hem of their hair.

Yet sometimes, you'll see a strange undulating wave just beneath the first layer of smooth locks. Ahh, regrowth. The stubborn curls are coming back to life, bubbling up from underneath.

Fake-straight girls are easy to spot at the gym. Next time you're on the StairMaster, take a careful, studied look at the roots of your neighbor. While her poker-straight ponytail is swinging jauntily, is her hair starting to wrinkle and bunch up at the nape of the neck? As her cheeks flush and sweat starts to stain her T-shirt, does she have a burgeoning halo of curls fluffing up her hairline? Does she sport a thick, absorbent headband to sop up the sweat that threatens to show the grow-out? She's trying to contain the damage and cut down on the amount of time she's going to have to spend later with her Super-Titanium Turbo-Pro-Jet-Engine-Hot Megawatt hair dryer. There's a friendly twentysomething woman in my yoga class who starts each session with a long, thick brown ponytail of straight hair. By the end, drenched in sweat from our Hour of Power, she's got damp curlicues shooting out from every angle. Her last T.R. was way over six months ago, she admitted to me, and she's now growing it out.

I know several other women who, despite their initial glee at the dramatic change that T.R. brought, have since abandoned the process. Some have reached a tipping point of breakage and damage, are downtrodden by endlessly forking ends. Others can't afford it anymore or don't want to subject pregnancies to the powerful chemicals. Still others are just tired of the unending series of grow-outs and touch-ups.

And I suspect-I hope-they're at the forefront of a receding trend. After all, at the Oscars recently, supermodel Gisele Bündchen sported perfect lissome waves and Oprah had a new curly 'do. They must know what I now understand: that curls are an entirely singular trait, as unique in texture, shape and erratic behavior as a fingerprint. As a New Yorker.

My kitchen is a many-headed hydra of scuffmarks on the floor, stubborn scum on the stove and sink and, of course, hair everywhere. (Oh, the curse of dark, curly hair.) The bathroom leaves me winded, the closets deeply depressed, the pantry downright pathetic and my living room-well, the last time I ventured in there to clean, I ended up collapsed on the couch pondering the futility of it all.

It's not that I am a particularly messy person; it's just that the act of living is inherently untidy-padding from room to room kicking up fresh dust as I go; standing in front of the window eating pretzels while yapping the phone. I watch the breeze come through the open windows, bringing with it a steady stream of pollen, grit and unidentifiable city grime. I may only spend a few hours a day at home, but during those hours I somehow manage to leave a trail indicative of a full-time layabout.

What's a girl to do? The logical answer would be to shut up and clean up, right? I mean, it's all so very ridiculous-to be whining about my housework woes when I have the good fortune to live in a friendly prewar building, free of annoying neighbors, scummy landlords and more insects than one would expect. I've got hardwood floors, the occasional decorative molding and an all-white kitchen. And it's all mine-the ultimate pleasure of solo living. No kids careening around, no pets muddying up my throw rugs, not even a slobby roommate to blame for the crumby couch or water rings.

And therein lies the rub: While there's no one else to nag about the mess, there's also no one else to rely on for the unending clean-up. Sure, I could make myself a little construction-paper job-wheel (remember those from summer camp?) to track the swirl of daily/weekly tasks, but I'd find my own name under each and every dirty duty. So I'm left with the dust bunnies, feeling like I've failed my duties as a Real Simple–reading grown up, wondering if a fine film of dust might be following me out of the house, too.

I get little sympathy from my neatnik mother on all of this.

"Liz, it's simple: get a housekeeper," she says. "Have her come once a month, O.K.?"

"I can't," I whine. "It's complicated, but I just can't."

What's so complicated? Well, I feel guilty: guilty that I am an able-bodied, single woman who is incapable (O.K., let's be accurate-unwilling) to adequately clean her apartment. I mean, I understand people who have kids and husbands and generally more complicated domestic situations wanting household help, but me? Guilt.

What's more, I complain that my finances are tight, that I'm living on a writer's salary, and yet I'm considering forking over the better part of 100 bucks to have a strange woman scour my tub? Let's face it: When unmarried, under 30-ish friends admit they've hired "help," there's often a knee-jerk eyebrow raised, a sneer that says, "What, you're so rich now that you can't hang with Mr. Clean? Is that Ikea-branded studio so immense that you can't reach all the nooks and crannies?" (All bets are off once you're hitched; the road to domestic bliss is often paved with housekeeping dollars.) But I'm not rich, my apartment is tiny and I'm not too cool to clean.

Mostly, I feel like the consummate prima donna who wants windowsills without grime and a toilet bowl you can see yourself in. I'm an antibacterial brat, only without the elbow grease.

With the battle of the bunnies raging on, I recently decided to stuff all my moaning and do something with my good-girl angst. You know, fish or cut bait. Shit or get off the pot. Clean or be cleaned.

I chose the latter.

I called Roseanne, a woman recommended to me by friends. At 8 a.m. on Friday morning, she arrived at my door, coffee in hand, with an easy smile, a lilting European accent and carefully pressed jeans. Twelve hours later, I opened the door to my apartment and was greeted with lemon-scented heaven. My bed was a smooth, inviting and billowy tableau of cotton; the bathroom twinkled. The moldings were no longer moldy.

It was the apartment I'd fallen in love with, but had forgotten. The one with a partial view of Central Park (if you open the window, lean out and crane your neck really hard), marble accents in the Lilliputian bathroom and just enough closet space to accommodate a swirling stew of black shoes, black purses and black pants. It's even got a tiny island in the kitchen that begs for baskets of fresh fruit, as well as a cozy living room worthy of a monthly book-club meeting.

I was thrilled. I felt clean. Antiseptic bliss, if you will.

The next morning, I called Roseanne and left a message, thanking her for her good work. I scheduled another visit.

The thing is, my newfound cleanliness has brought with it a whole new slew of problems and a fresh batch of emotional baggage-it hit me before the shine had even left the floors, before I'd even sullied the sink. It may be clean now, but it would eventually get dirty. And then what? Somehow, I guess I thought of it as a one-time deal. I was wrong. Now that I've had someone else do the dirty work, I realize that I'm totally hooked-dependent on someone else to fight my battles. How difficult it is to actually live in a sparkling clean apartment! I can't invite friends over for fear they will water-spot the stainless steel of my sink or secretly deposit gum wrappers between the cushions of my couch!

Worse, now I have the frenetic process of "pre-cleaning," the burden of getting my apartment in "ready" mode for the arrival of Roseanne-stashing dirty laundry and piling up books, magazines and papers so that she can actually get to the surfaces. Is it possible that it takes longer to pre-clean than it would to clean?

My kitchen is a many-headed hydra of scuffmarks on the floor, stubborn scum on the stove and sink and, of course, hair everywhere. (Oh, the curse of dark, curly hair.) The bathroom leaves me winded, the closets deeply depressed, the pantry downright pathetic and my living room-well, the last time I ventured in there to clean, I ended up collapsed on the couch pondering the futility of it all.

It's not that I am a particularly messy person; it's just that the act of living is inherently untidy-padding from room to room kicking up fresh dust as I go; standing in front of the window eating pretzels while yapping on the phone. I watch the breeze come through the open windows, bringing with it a steady stream of pollen, grit and unidentifiable city grime. I may only spend a few hours a day at home, but during those hours I somehow manage to leave a trail indicative of a full-time layabout.

What's a girl to do? The logical answer would be to shut up and clean up, right? I mean, it's all so very ridiculous-to be whining about my housework woes when I have the good fortune to live in a friendly prewar building, free of annoying neighbors, scummy landlords and more insects than one would expect. I've got hardwood floors, the occasional decorative molding and an all-white kitchen. And it's all mine-the ultimate pleasure of solo living. No kids careening around, no pets muddying up my throw rugs, not even a slobby roommate to blame for the crumby couch or water rings.

And therein lies the rub: While there's no one else to nag about the mess, there's also no one else to rely on for the unending clean-up. Sure, I could make myself a little construction-paper job-wheel (remember those from summer camp?) to track the swirl of daily/weekly tasks, but I'd find my own name under each and every dirty duty. So I'm left with the dust bunnies, feeling like I've failed my duties as a Real Simple–reading grown up, wondering if a fine film of dust might be following me out of the house, too.

I get little sympathy from my neatnik mother on all of this.

"Liz, it's simple: get a housekeeper," she says. "Have her come once a month, O.K.?"

"I can't," I whine. "It's complicated, but I just can't."

What's so complicated? Well, I feel guilty: guilty that I am an able-bodied, single woman who is incapable (O.K., let's be accurate-unwilling) to adequately clean her apartment. I understand people who have kids and husbands and generally more complicated domestic situations wanting household help, but me? Guilt.

What's more, I complain that my finances are tight, that I'm living on a writer's salary, and yet I'm considering forking over the better part of 100 bucks to have a strange woman scour my tub? Let's face it: When unmarried, under 30-ish friends admit they've hired "help," there's often a knee-jerk eyebrow raised, a sneer that says, "What, you're so rich now that you can't hang with Mr. Clean? Is that Ikea-branded studio so immense that you can't reach all the nooks and crannies?" (All bets are off once you're hitched; the road to domestic bliss is often paved with housekeeping dollars.) But I'm not rich, my apartment is tiny and I'm not too cool to clean.

Mostly, I feel like the consummate prima donna who wants windowsills without grime and a toilet bowl you can see yourself in. I'm an antibacterial brat, only without the elbow grease.

With the battle of the bunnies raging on, I recently decided to stuff all my moaning and do something with my good-girl angst. You know, fish or cut bait. Shit or get off the pot. Clean or be cleaned.

I chose the latter.

I called Roseanne, a woman recommended to me by friends. At 8 a.m. on Friday morning, she arrived at my door, coffee in hand, with an easy smile, a lilting European accent and carefully pressed jeans. Twelve hours later, I opened the door to my apartment and was greeted with lemon-scented heaven. My bed was a smooth, inviting and billowy tableau of cotton; the bathroom twinkled. The moldings were no longer moldy.

It was the apartment I'd fallen in love with, but had forgotten. The one with a partial view of Central Park (if you open the window, lean out and crane your neck really hard), marble accents in the Lilliputian bathroom and just enough closet space to accommodate a swirling stew of black shoes, black purses and black pants. It's even got a tiny island in the kitchen that begs for baskets of fresh fruit, as well as a cozy living room worthy of a monthly book-club meeting.

I was thrilled. I felt clean. Antiseptic bliss, if you will.

The next morning, I called Roseanne and left a message, thanking her for her good work. I scheduled another visit.

The thing is, my newfound cleanliness has brought with it a whole new slew of problems and a fresh batch of emotional baggage-it hit me before the shine had even left the floors, before I'd even sullied the sink. It may be clean now, but it would eventually get dirty. And then what? Somehow, I guess I thought of it as a one-time deal. I was wrong. Now that I've had someone do the dirty work, I realize that I'm totally hooked-dependent on someone else to fight my battles. How difficult it is to actually live in a sparkling clean apartment! I can't invite friends over for fear they will water-spot the stainless steel of my sink or secretly deposit gum wrappers between the cushions of my couch!

And I also have the frenetic process of "pre-cleaning," the burden of getting my apartment in "ready" mode for the arrival of Roseanne-stashing dirty laundry and piling up books, magazines and papers so that she can actually get to the surfaces. Is it possible that it takes longer to pre-clean than it would to clean?