Confessions of a Leftist Elitist, Part MCVIII

Next time I get my hair cut, I'm going to ask my stylist, "Do they teach you how to cut hair for developmentally challenged girls who can, at best, comb their hair in various directions after they wash it? Because if they did, give me that."

I have had, like, thirty years to learn how to work a hair dryer and I still cannot seem to wield one in a way that makes my hair look better after I use it than before. Part of the problem is my hair, which is full of cowlicks and half-full of curls. It won't do curly well, and it won't for the life of me do straight. However, most of the problem may be my impatience. Even though my hair is so fine it can dry before I get the hair dryer plugged in, I often lose interest before I get halfway done.

Last week, I scrunched some mousse in my hair, got sidetracked by something shiny, didn't even so much as comb it before I picked out my outfit, slathered on my half-bottle of lotion, got dressed, and picked up my towel and dog-walking clothes before remembering my hair was as I left it, crumpled like a bad essay on the Peloponnesian War. I tried to save it, but it was too late. I went through the rest of the day like that. The sad part was, it was so close to my usual hair disaster that nobody said, "What the hell is that on your head?"

This morning, I was tippy-toeing around in the bathroom, trying not to wake up The Captain, asleep after a long night at the fire station, wondering whether to attempt hair dryer success today after the 10,950th failures that came before. Then I laughed and walked out.