Old movies often featured women dressed in seductive outfits meeting their partners at the door when they returned from a long day at the office, with a martini in their hands. Recently I greeted my husband at the door by me with a curling iron hanging from my hair and tears in my eyes. Now THAT’S some seductive stuff right there.
Let me explain. George had to get blood work done one morning. When he left for his 8 a.m. appointment, I was in the process of getting ready for work. I wasn’t dressed in my work clothes yet. I had blow dried my hair and I made a management decision to put a little curl into my hair that day. In retrospect, bad decision.
Here’s some background: my curling iron is ancient. It’s not like the curling irons in olden days, where you jammed them into an actual fire to heat them up, but it’s old. And it has little teeth on the barrel as well. (This fun fact will become relevant in a minute).
I think the thing may actually be around the same age as our youngest son Donnie (33 years old). Hey, why throw something out just because it’s old? If it still works, then why not keep it? Well, I’ll tell you why. Keep reading.
I use it occasionally when I’m feeling some hair festivity and fanciness is called for, or when I’m tired of my usual boring straight hair. I’m not quite sure what made me want some curls that day, but I did.
So there I was, standing at the bathroom sink curling sections of hair while listening to the television. I got to the last section of hair to be curled. I wrapped it around the barrel of my curling iron and held it there for a few seconds.
When I went to unwind the hair from the curling iron, the hair would not unwind. At all. I tugged gently. Nope. I tugged less gently. Nope. I started to pull the hair from the barrel. Nope. That hair was NOT BUDGING.
The smell of singed hair filled the room. I quickly unplugged the curling iron. I continued to try and unwrap the hair from the barrel, to no avail. I turned sideways, trying to see in what direction the hair was wrapped. Couldn’t see it. Then I started to get angry.
I left the bathroom and walked into the living room. Our two dogs, cuddled on the couch together after their morning meal and exercise, looked up at me with quizzical expressions. I was probably imagining the quizzical expressions, but I still felt judged by them.
I sat at the kitchen table, examining my options:
1. I could cut the hank of hair attached to the curling iron (NO WAY).
2. I could painstakingly try and unwrap the hair strand by strand (too time-consuming and painful!).
3. I could wait for George to get home and help me (The ayes have it on #3).
So I sat and waited, dressed in my nightgown, makeup on, three-quarters of my hair looking decent, and a curling iron dangling from the right side of my head.
My talent for finding humor in almost any situation kicked in and I started to laugh. I took two selfies of the curling iron in my hair and sent them to my kids with the words, “Curling iron stuck in hair. Gonna be a little late to work.” I also snapped a picture of the dogs and what I firmly believe are their judgmental expressions.
Finally just as I was developing a massive headache, George pulled up in the driveway. I met him at the door.
Now keep in mind that this man has known me for over 40 years and thus, very little surprises him. So the curling iron hanging from my head didn’t faze him. He promptly got to work untangling the hair.
I went thru that day with softly waving hair, EXCEPT for a portion of hair that looked like I had used an egg beater on it, and a dull ache on the right side of my head.
Moral of the story? Straight hair rocks.