July 23, 2010
Flow It, Show It, Long as God Can Grow It
Despite all my mascaras and shopping and self-indulgent behavior, I have only one true vanity: my hair.
My hair has lured many men to their ultimate demise. Sometimes, it's even deliberate. One time, at a church youth group lock-in, there was a certain gentleman in whom I'd taken a particular interest. So while we were all watching a movie during the wee hours, I laid down next to him to sleep. And while feigning sleep, I flipped my hair so that it fanned across his denim-clad thigh. He was hopelessly smitten before sunrise.
A few years later, a different gentleman had the nerve to dump me. Me! He gave me the whole I-need-to-find-myself talk while at his apartment, then wanted to drive me home. I excused myself to the powder room first, to splash some cold water on my red, blotchy, tear-moistened face. On my way back from the bathroom, I ducked into his bedroom, raked my fingers through my hair, and laid the loose strands across his pillow.
A week later, he called me and begged me to take him back. Two months later, he admitted it was the hair he found on his pillow that sent him running back to me. I never told it I'd planted it there.
Mwah ha haaaaaaaaaaa. I know your weaknesses, gentlemen, and I will exploit them.
Flash forward to the current man. When we'd first started dating, I sat in front of him in the church choir. The cobalt blue choir robes were the perfect compliment to my long, blond locks. Someone was thinking naughty thoughts mere feet from the pulpit...
Takes a lot of time, this hair. Every damn day, I wash it, rinse it, condition it, let it sit, rinse it. Then I towel-dry it, comb it out, let it air dry as much as possible while I get dressed, put on my face, and eat breakfast.
A few weeks ago, in the elevator, a lovely woman with curly brown hair asked me how I get my hair so straight and perfect.
"Um, I blow dry it with a paddle brush."
Yup. That's all I do. I'm sure she was hoping for some trick she could use to get her hair the same way, but there's no trick. You gotta be born with it, baby! She hates me.
But it's a love-hate relationship that I have with my hair. I'll bet I could sleep a half an hour later every morning, if I wasn't so damn vain. But it's all worth it. Like when Di called my bangs "perfection." The ultimate! She couldn't have said anything nicer!
And whatever happened to that lesbian drummer who called me She of the Immaculate Hair...?
Jeebus, can you believe I just wrote for twenty minutes about my damn hair?! Well, it's on my mind lately. I need a trim. Yesterday, my hair was fine. But today? I need a haircut IMMEDIATELY because my ENDS are INSUFFERABLY DRY and FUZZY! My hair is dis-immaculate, and I won't stand for it.
When my hair gets like this, I usually flat-iron it a bit in the morning. (Yes, I just used flat-iron as a verb.) Just to tame the ends a bit. They get particularly wingy in this humid weather.
But yesterday, when I went to turn on my iron, there was a piece missing. See, there's a little comb attached to the side that combs my hair straight while heating it. Frankly, it don't know why they sell the damn irons without the little comb attachment, but they do. And in droves. It's quite a quest to find an iron that DOES come with a comb attachment. But I did, and I dropped a stupid amount of money at Target to obtain it.
But now the comb is gone. Like... vanished. I have no idea how it happened. The iron never leaves the three-foot-by-four-foot powder room. And I'm the only one who ever uses it. WHERE THE HELL COULD IT HAVE GONE?!
I'm certain the dogs didn't sneak into the bathroom and chew off the comb. That would require a level of planning and cleverness that they are just not capable of. Husband didn't touch it. No one stayed the night and borrowed it. It didn't just fall off because I would have easily found it!
And there are a very limited number of items in that bathroom to begin with. Toilet, pedestal sink, towels, wall clock, tiny medicine chest. Not a lot of places for it to hide! I am so irritated by this, I can't even describe it. There's no logical explanation for the disappearance of my iron attachment, and there's no point in me keeping an iron that doesn't have the little comb, so I'm gonna have to buy a whole new flat-iron because of a thirty-cent attachment!
RRRRRRRAAAAAAARRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!
There's only one explanation: The Spare, on his most recent visit, having wearied of my hair brushes, make-up brushes and mascara, discovered my flat-iron while hiding from The Boy Child, removed the little comb, and hid it somewhere in my house.
And how weird is it that that is literally the only explanation that makes any sense to me...?