Today as I drove back from the bank, I reflected happily (but with a sober recognition that this could lead to strange new places) that I was now a high-maintenance woman. I’ve been wearing makeup (eye makeup because face makeup makes me suffocate) almost every day for ages, and I totally plucked my eyebrows a few weeks ago. Not totally in terms of no eyebrows left, but in terms of I almost totally tidied them up—I put off finishing them for tomorrow, which fortunately hasn’t come yet. But the pièce de résistance was that I blew dry my hair using a round brush this morning.
Now the beauty industry has tragically suppressed the fact, but 87.3% of women younger than 40 who have died of old age have done so while blow drying their hair. (All blow driers have a “Warning” tag to this effect, but the real danger is hidden under the highly unlikely possibility of dropping the thing in water). I’ve never been the kind of person who takes unwarranted risks (unless it involves jettisoning all aspects of my life and moving across the country), so I’ve taken this warning to heart. When I feel myself within time’s bending sickle's compass come, I click the Machine of Danger off and head out into the rain, secure in the knowledge that I’m not going to be any the worse off for a few more pints of water in my hair.
But today I really amazed myself, and almost expected to be wearing pointy shoes and haute couture by the time I got out of the van. My boss failed to notice right off, though, and I started to wonder if I’d wasted my ten minutes. I pointed out how beautiful my hair was (to help her along), and explained.
“Ah, yes, I see you dried the front and not the back."
“What?!” Outraged at this base slander, I reached back to exhibit the silky softness but found my enemies had substituted chunks of damp hair.
Oh well, I don’t like dating rock stars anyhow.
