An Ode to My Blow Dryer. Kind Of.

If you have hair growing out of your scalp, and you do not happen to have a penis, you’re going to want to nominate me for sainthood when I tell you what I’ve been doing for the good of my family.

For the past three weeks, I’ve been living life sans blow dryer. I know. I’ll give you a minute to process the shock and admiration of it all. It was a truly risky move considering how it’s coinciding with my wanting to grow out my hair. But, in the interest of complete honesty, it had become necessary after my old blow dryer started shooting sparks into the air every time I used it. Clayton told me, very somberly, that it was time to say goodbye. And also that he would not stay married to me if my hair caught fire due to my stubbornness. And so I parted ways from the trusty, dependable ConAir I’d had for about 11 years. Give or take. That ol’ girl had seen me through more than one questionable celebrity-inspired trip to the stylist. And even if I hadn’t gone in months, and I couldn’t boast evenly trimmed ends or a professionally washed scalp, I could know for certain that my hair was, without question, dry.

But life is about change. And not making headlines for a freak apartment fire in which the tenant lost half her hair and one eyebrow due to a malfunctioning blow dryer. So, goodbye, dear ConAir. You probably won’t be missed because, let’s get real, those sparks scared the crap out of me. But you will represent a period in my life when paying for a new work shirt for Clayton came first, and – pneumonia be damned – beauty came second.