Julie took off for Hawaii to visit Evan on Monday. With her were our love, our best wishes for a safe trip, and my flatiron.
She can keep the love and wishes. I want my flatiron back.
|the pixie cut|
My 8th grade graduation photo features me with a shoulder-length, glossy "do," the product of a solid hour in the hairdresser's chair with giant rollers and various potions designed to bring my wayward strands under control. "Shortly" thereafter, I got it all cut off again. And so I remained, the oldest living pixie, throughout my young adulthood. We shall draw a merciful curtain over the few years I sported a "permanent" (think Harpo Marx, think finger in a light socket). The majority of the time it was wash-n-go for me, which was good because I rarely glanced in the mirror--why ruin my day?
Awhile back, I was feeling quite low, and really needed a cosmetic boost. So my friend and hairdresser Sue and I embarked on a slow journey, the journey to an attractive mane. Over the next few years, Sue tended my hair as one would a garden, trimming, watering. Patience paid off: at last I looked the way I wanted (more or less; I could do without the not-remotely-funny “laugh lines.”) Upkeep is a bear, but it’s worth it to me.
And now my flatiron is sunning itself on Kailua Beach. I’m sure Julie didn’t mean to abscond with my favorite beauty tool, but nevertheless she did (and ironically Julie’s hair ALWAYS looks great naturally). I’m counting the days until it—I mean she—comes home.
Sue came to my rescue last night with an emergency blowout, which should tide me over for a bit. I didn’t think I had a lot of personal vanity until the Great Hair Adventure. Now I know better. I’m not proud of myself, but there it is. I finally care how I look.
So, while I’m way behind on office work, I’m not ready for my speaking gig Tuesday, the fridge is empty and the laundry is piling up, none of this matters. I am a happy clam.
The hair looks good today.