Today at 1:02pm EST, my hairdryer passed quietly from this world. Ailing for the past week, the lifesaving procedure undertaken by Doctor Charlie The Engineer was deemed unsuccessful and we said our quiet goodbyes. The cord was pulled and he slipped away from us, into a plastic trash bag with little to no fanfare, just warm — ok, hot — remembrances.

He is remembered for his many worthy accomplishments, the most striking of which include the Great Curly Hair Experiment of 2008, the Most Attractive Stacked Bob Ever of 2004 and the Imperious Wedding Face Hairstyle from earlier this year.

In lieu of flowers, the family requests donations in his name to be made to the Official Oh That Meredith Ulta and Sephora Charitable Funds.

I am a fragile, delicate, little flower, who’s broken men’s noses and her own nails, who could change her own tires if she so chose, but would rather call someone to do it for her.

I love the color green and the word bilious, and hold back people’s hair, but am a sympathetic vomiter.

I drive a car too expensive to maintain, wear shoes too cheap to last, dial a phone too smart to understand and love the smell of graphite.

I prefer costly bourbon but cheap champagne, have an unhealthy relationship with the smell of grapefruit and pronounce the T in bergamot.

I’m the sister of four, a middle child, with depression, memory problems and a love of all things sparkly.

I am a recovering musician, former activist, latent poet and celibate whore.

I invest my time in the grave matter of my hair, own $500 shoes that were made for pointing at the sky — rather than walking — and inspire others to indulgence.

I’m a voracious reader of worthless books and a fair-weather friend to heavy literature, who wears sweaters in the heat and sandals in the snow and can’t escape the grasp of lemon water.

I feel strongly about the future of pizza construction, need the smell of baking sweets to release the tension of my shoulders and cannot do without olives.

I fall in love with furniture at the drop of a lamp shade, wish torturous death upon the inventor of the cinnamon pine-cone and require a number of keepers to make it through my day.

I’m a girl who makes the world go ‘round with the T&A to prove it, a woman with an agenda and a child of the times.

Now, then. Let’s try this once more.

Today Yesterday, my loves, magic happened. The ULTA fairy arrived on wings dusted in the latest fall colors, full of shimmer, shine and fruity lip gloss.

We all know how I feel about lip gloss.

Despite my whiny, sick afternoon, I knew I wasn’t too seriously ill, as my desire to open the package immediately was stronger than the desire to curl back up into a feverish ball in bed.

Magically (read: by way of purchasing online & waiting for delivery), in that beautiful box were two fabulously new hair tools, both of which, oddly enough, look like scary sex toys.

And now, this is where my story BEGINS!

Though I was unable to host another twitter fashion show and was veritably forced to engage in battle in this latest skirmish in the from-time-immemorial war waged by, in and around my hair, I have prevailed, friendos. I have prevailed.

Asshole Camera, we all remember (because we read this post, riiiiight?), the sweet, young thing, HELD MY PHOTOS HOSTAGE LAST NIGHT, after I spent 2+ hours sacrificing for you (read: playing with new beauty tools), my dear, lovely readers.

Lest your memories go the way of mine, I will remind you: yesterday I was sick, it was a holiday, I burned my damn finger and fought with the camera. ALL. FOR. YOU.

What? It’s the new year. Gotta get my Jewish guilt in there, covering all bases.

Ok, so, anyway. We’ll just segue right here back to the original story about which I’ve now forgotten each detail and idea I had and pretend I did that smoothly.

The facts of this case:

1.   I have very long, very pretty hair. (In fact, about 6+ inches longer than this photo now.)

2.   This summer, I have come to fully embrace my girliness, in ways I never could’ve expected. Though receiving a treasure trove of lip gloss may have aided in said acceptance.

3.    My hairdryer has begun to smell like it wishes to burn down the entire house, or at least my luscious locks, at any given moment, killing us all in our sleep.

4.    I had a coupon.

And so, through the magical powers of online commerce, I have acquired two new tools:

The best part, of course, of the acquisition process is reading consumer product reviews and judging the stupidity of my fellow beautifiers harshly.

Shut up. You know you do it, too.

With each of the two titivating tools, the negative reviews all centered on the users’ inability to correctly operate the machinery. This, of course, provided wonderful fodder for pointing and laughing. Obviously you don’t like this product if you can’t even use it.

UNTIL IT HAPPENED TO ME.

Before I smashed the tool to pieces, it dawned on me that if you pressed this little button to release the attachment, you probably pressed it to put it back together. OH RIGHT.

Things went swimmingly from there, by which I mean I then finally began the process of doing my hair.

This process? Takes approximately 12 years each time I attempt it with ler hair, as it comes dangerously close to ler ass.

AND FINALLY (thank you for your patience) we reach the actual engagement of the tools, wherein I show you a few pictures, make a few snarky comments and we all go about our evening. Aaaaaaand GO:

After a good 45 minutes or so of brushing hair, with hot air — SO BRILLIANT — it is dry. Approximately the same time it takes to dry my hair with a hair dryer, but less arm strain. (Less arm strain? Wtf, it’s blowdrying hair.)

At this point, I stop phoning in this post and start paying attention once again. My favorite part of the evening comes now. The anticipation of the curls.

See, my hair’s heritage is Latvian/Lithuanian on the one side and Scots Irish on the other. Straight red brown hair, mixed with curly black brown. Overall, this simply means it’s stubborn, streaked with red when it feels like it, curly around my face and neck, and wavy or straight wherever it wants to be. And heavy. VERY FUCKING HEAVY.

My aunts, my father, my sister, they have beautiful curly hair. I have lived in the shadow of the curl for so long. And damn it, I’m tired of living in that shadow. I will stand on my own two feet with curly hair before you all!

Ahem.

I discovered around 24 or 25 that with enough product and that magical machine, the diffuser, I could have curly-ish hair.

Curly-ish is much closer to curly than wavy is. You’re welcome.

And then I discovered the curling iron.

Do not ask why I had not employed these tools in the past. I have no answers for you and the impertinence of the question may well bring you pain.

Anyway. Though the trusty iron brought me, indeed, even closer to ‘curly,’ the effort involved grew with the length of my hair. And fuck it, that shit’s long, k?

Which brings us back to this glorious day, the day of the new, conical, no-clip curling iron. Which, I must admit, was maybe one of the more difficult creatures I’ve ever used ever. Fucker is a pain in the ass. Which is why there are few photos of the process.

BUT. It is now time for the final evidence in this trial: the success of the curls.

Once more, with enthusiasm!

As you can all see, ladies & gentlemen of the jury, the verdict is clear: the hair is curly.

HOWEVER! I must caution you all! Take not this evidence and this decree as rule of law. Herein lies just one more determination:

I need a fucking haircut.