My hairdryer exploded.
I should start at the beginning.
Once upon a time, a long long time ago, Aimee got her hair cut.
We were in college at the time. She was still attending MC. One day she had long hair, the next she had medium-length locks.
"I did it for Locks of Love!" She announced. "You should do it!" Aimee tends to speak in exclamations. It's endearing.
"I've never had my hair longer than shoulder-length," I replied.*
"Grow it out!" Aimee insisted.
"But then it will reach the AWKWARD stage," I said. "And if it gets THERE, I will DIE."
"You should grow it, and give it to Locks of Love!" Aimee told me. And somehow...I said yes.
I think maybe it was some kind of chemical fume that did it. I mean, I was in Winger, in The Lounge. That building was OLD, and there was construction! Who knows what kind of chemical whats-it was in the air!
But I'd said yes. So I started growing my hair.
And it was PAINFUL.
I should mention, at the time, I very short hair (I was just starting to grow out of a pixie cut).
But I've made it very far. From here:
(Yes, I shamelessly Photoshopped this picture to hide a mole. Hey--it's a close-up! What do you expect? And sorry about the first picture, I didn't have any other short-hair pictures on this computer. So you have to look at Reporter Laura and with Ralph Nader and all the other journalists.)
I was told on Monday, when I went in for a trim, that my hair was Officially long enough for me to donate. Now I just have to choose how long I want it to be when it's lopped off. Like, do I want to have a short bob, or do I want it to be shoulder-length, or longer?*
I just had the stylist trim it, because I knew that Christmas would mean seeing relatives I don't see very often, relatives who wouldn't believe that I'd let my hair grow out at all, if they didn't see it for themselves. Plus, I want to see how long it will grow. And I know that in February, I will get sick of my LIFE, and I will want a change. If I save the Great Haircut until then, I will get a major change to make me very happy. Haircuts are for me what Prozac is for others. I go from being miserable with my life and my place in the world to feeling light and happy, ready to take on anything.
The stylist even gave me something to help me battle the constant static that plagues me all year. It's one of the Perils of Knitting.
So I went home, washed my hair to get all the little short bits off my skin, noted that I already had many, many hives from where the liberated ends had touched my skin, debated taking a picture to prove to Jen that I was allergic to my own hair, decided I was too tired, and went to sleep.
Fast forward to this morning.
I woke up and washed my hair. Then I said: It's SO COLD. I must dry it!
My hair takes a long time to dry. With a hairdryer, it takes about a twenty minutes of drying it in order for it to actually BE dry (I'm not kidding. I have very thick hair). I went about the usual routine until...
My hair dryer jerked violently in my hands, shot sparks, and then clouds of smoke billowed from the front. I turned it off and unplugged it, then rushed it outside and hurled it into the snow. Meanwhile, as I ran, what I'd imagine might have been the little motor rattled around inside the hair dryer's casing like seeds in maracas.
Fortunately for me, I had been holding the dryer away from my hair at the time of the explosion. Otherwise, the sparks would have shot into MY HAIR.
This reinforces a very important lesson I should have learned long ago:
If the universe can do something, anything to thwart my plans, it will. I am never safe; I should never relax. CONSTANT VIGILANCE is necessary in order to ensure my survival from one day to the next.
I also need a new hairdryer. Does anyone know what sort doesn't explode? Because I'm going to Walmart after work, so it would be useful to know. I think my hair looks better when it isn't on fire.
*"Here baby, there mama, everywhere daddy, daddy, HAIR..." Couldn't resist.