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.
oh em eff gee package must open now squeeeee
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.
- mug shot is unavailable at this time, as one Asshole Camera is still in holding cell, after being distracted by, tasered and captured by SWAT team, ending hostage situation last night.
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.)
Exhibit A. d/b/a 'The Best Hair Photo Ever'
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.
Exhibit B. I told you it was a fucking treasure trove.
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.
Exhibit C. Can't you just see how sinister this thing is?
4. I had a coupon.
Exhibit D. OBV MUST USE THIS NOW CANNOT STOP SELF GLUTTON FOR BEAUTY PRODUCTS
And so, through the magical powers of online commerce, I have acquired two new tools:
Revlon Tourmaline Hot Air Brush & Conair Infiniti Curling Wand Styler -- haircare tools? dirt devil? sex toys? verdict is still out.
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.
no, really. could not get the thing to attach.
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.
first, there is combing.
lots of fucking combing.
This process? Takes approximately 12 years each time I attempt it with ler hair, as it comes dangerously close to ler ass.
The next step is the application of the goop. Not as sexy as it sounds.
Insert gratuitous head flippy pantene shot here.
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:
is like using brush. with air. hot air. hot air brush. brilliant.
is complicated procedure. instructions say: start at root. brush.
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.)
hair is dry. straight. maybe sleeker? face does not register a clear verdict.
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!
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.
you *know* Patrick will peck the eyes out of whomever asks.
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.
really, why do this at all if not for the awkward faces?
taking photos of the back of your head is hard. i said hard. ha.
Once more, with enthusiasm!
hey there, perfect little curl, how YOU doin'?
that's right, you turn that book in on time, you bad boy.
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.