I’m not really what you call a morning person. I’d much rather sleep in, than trundle myself out of bed before dawn to get ready for work. My line of work – what with our morning deadlines – isn’t exactly conducive to the former, so I have resigned myself to the latter.
Even after close to years of the same routine, my body still hasn’t realized that resistance is futile. As a result, I end up hitting snooze a time or ten too many times trying to delay the inevitable.
Unfortunately, my reluctance to extricate myself from my comfy, cozy bed means I’m usually on a pretty tight time schedule in the morning. There is no time for dilly-dallying or delays of any kind. Thanks to Murphy and his damnable law it always seems to work out that the day’s I’m already running behind are the ones where things go pear shaped.
Take this morning, for example. When my hairdryer decided to go kaput when I was half way through drying my hair. Laugh if you will, but this is no small crisis when you’ve got hair as long and out of control as mine.
In it’s natural state, it is – as one of my numerous Farrell cousins once observed – something akin to broken bed springs. It’s one thing when I’ve decided to allow the entirety of my wild woman mane to dry au naturel, but when half of it has already been blown straight? It would be enough to give small children nightmares, and adults cause to visit their therapist.
Not wishing to scar anyone for life, I did my best to mitigate the situation. Luckily, there was a spare hair dryer tucked away in the bathroom. Unfortunately, it dated back to my high school years, and emitted as much hot air as a wheezing asthmatic. With emphysema.
The results, I’m afraid, we’re much of an improvement.
I actually considered calling in to work, just to save my co-workers the shock, you understand. But after careful reflection, I thought better of it. Somehow I doubt my esteemed editor, Jeff, would have considered ‘hair dryer malfunction’ or a ‘bad hair day’ as a valid excuse for an absence. And I don’t get enough vacation days to write one off so easily.
It could have been worse, I thought as I mentally prepared myself for what could possibly the worst hair day of my life. I mean, at least my overworked hair dryer hadn’t burst into flames. My locks might be a bit a bit frizzy and frazzled, after all, but at least they aren’t singed.
It’s not so bad, I guess. As long as I don’t look in the mirror. The true horror will set in when I try to replace my fried hair drying apparatus. It’s so hard to find a good one at a reasonable price, and one is forced to weigh all kinds of options. You practically have to have a science degree nowadays to make sense of it all. I mean, what is super thermal ceramic ionic tourmaline and how exactly does it make my hair shinier and silkier without frying it or my brain cells?
And even if you do cough up the ridiculously absorbitant price of a top of the line model, you still run the risk of having it trying to scalp you. You know what I mean, ladies. You get that your fancy schmancy new blow dryer home, and the first time you use it, your hair gets sucked into the rear vent.
By the time you fumble with the unfamiliar controls and get it turned off you’re left wishing you’d never grown your hair long. There is no use trying to untangle your mane from the dastardly clutches of the blasted machine’s inner workings. No, your options are simply to cut or not to cut.
Well, maybe it was time for a new hair style anyway.
Laugh if you will, men, but these are the decisions we women are forced to make in the name of beauty. It’s almost too much to bear.
Maybe there is something to be said for the au naturel, wild woman look after all.
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