The package was sitting on the doorstep, a neat, perfunctory rectangle with no real identifying insignia.
“Mom, what did you get?” The kids ask. They usually get presents in packages, so anything in a box must be really good. I look at it. It has my name on it, but other than that, it is a mystery. I think hard, did I order anything? Taxes don’t generally come in huge boxes….hmm. No idea. I chuck it aside and get on with the end of day routine, involving whining and dinner.
I wait until the kids are safely ensconced in the bosom of television before opening the package, now worried that it could be a head, or worse, lingerie.
I rip into it with trepidation, only to laugh when I see what is inside. Oh yes. I had Groupon money to use, and made a rash three second decision to buy. It did hail itself as the Excalibur of its field, what the pros use, what you dunderheads obviously want. No, it wasn’t a vibrator, they don’t sell those on Groupon.
It was a Ionic Supersonic electro-magnetically charged plasma possibly fat burning HAIRDRYER.
And it has zebra stripes.
I sigh, knowing that I have never actually learned how to use one, despite my hairdresser’s patient lessons.
“Tilt your head to the side, like this, and then dry up, and then flatten with your paddle brush, and then rotate your body 180 degrees, and then do it again, this time brushing downwards, while spraying on leave-in conditioner, and tilting your body just so…and then your cowlick will disappear.”
All that, just to make it lay flat? Forget that. This is why I usually have short hair. Easy-peasy, lemon squeezy. Cut it off, and suddenly you have nothing to worry about.
But no, I have decided that during the beginnings of my very own mid-life crisis, something must change. Some people lose a husband, others drop/gain twenty pounds. I am going to grow my hair out; except I don’t know what to do with it. My hair often resembles road kill; this is why I wear hats.
Maybe this rash purchase has magical hair powers! It does have a sleek, slightly sexual bent to it, the zebra stripes reminiscent of an 80’s glam band or a whore who bought tight pants at Zellers. It screams,
“New To You, Hair-farmer, and it is time to Work It!”
I am slightly afraid. Can someone like me wield such power, glean professional mastery? I lift it from its molded foam bed, accessory parts also fitting snugly to their pre-made positions. It is…beautiful.
I gently place it back, closing the lid securely. Then I shove it into the hallway closet, wondering who I can give it to.
The answer is, no. I cannot brandish this weapon.
I have tried pulling the sword from the rock, only to find it will not sing for me.
Another day, another hat.