Hair Woes

It's always an exciting event when one of my friends has a birthday. It means one thing: girls night out. For an entire evening, we forget our responsibilities. We laugh. We have actual adult conversation that doesn't even remotely involve talking about Dora the Explorer.

And we get to eat yummy food cooked by somebody else.

So the plan tonight was to meet at a little Italian place in town at 6:30. I scheduled my afternoon so that I would have enough time to shower, do my hair, get Savannah ready to go with Ricardo, make her some dinner, figure out what to wear, and get dressed. Simple, right? I hate to be rushed, so I allotted plenty of time.

I was doing great until I started to blow dry my hair. By the way, not one of my favorite things to do. My hair is pretty thick and wavy, but lately I have been on a straightening kick, so I have to dry it with a round brush, then go over it with a straightening iron. Time consuming, and it makes me hot.

So anyway, about half of my hair was dried when the hairdryer made a weird sound. Click. Click. And a very weird smell emanated from its depths. The little orange thing (coil? heating element? ) that normally glows inside was glowing no more. Let me just say, when things like this happen, it makes me nervous. I imagine that fire will start to leap out, scorching my hair and face, or that the whole thing will just explode in my hand.

So I put it down and went to find Ricardo.

I think my hairdryer just broke, I inform him.

He is busy looking out the window, scoping out the neighborhood. (Is my hubby the only one that does this? He gets the biggest kick out of spying on everyone that walks by. Hmmmm.)
He looks at me, half my hair up in a clip, the other half smooth and beautiful.

Oh really, he says.

I wait. Nothing more is forthcoming. I am not sure what I expected. Maybe something like, Oh! Well, let me just run down to Sally's and pick you up a new one!

What? Oh. Yes. Probably asking too much with that scenario.

Do you think it's ok to keep running it until I finish my hair? 'Cause it doesn't smell right.

He shrugs and says, "Sure, probably."

My husband is much more mechanically-minded than me, so if he says it's ok to keep running it, I will keep running it.

For about 2 more seconds, anyway. The "clicks" increased in volume as my peace of mind evaporated. I had to resort to Plan B.

Plan B included running out into the backyard where a fierce wind was blowing, turning my head upside down, and letting nature do what my hairdryer could not. My hair was dry in 5 minutes. I finished up with the straightening iron, and it turned out reasonably well.

I went to tell Ricardo that my hairdryer had indeed died, but again his response was less than enthusiastic. Fortunately my friend called at that very moment and I was able to share my tale of hair trauma with her. She commiserated with me over the very poor timing of it all.

And something I read earlier today came to mind: Your husband is your best friend, not your best girlfriend.

I would do well to remember that in the future.