Thursday, May 11, 2006
Dear Revlon RV490 Hair Dryer,
You were a good friend. You saw me through bleach-blonde, auburn and chocolate. Not once did you call attention to that single blue highlight that turned my hair a messy shade of green. You voiced no complaints when I woke you each morning at four to prep me during senior year of high school. You've been faithful over the past four and a half years. Never a bad blow out. Never a harsh word.
Unlike me, you were always on time. From bathroom to dorm room you had my back. You didn't complain when you were lost for a week by the lovely people of Delta Airlines or were forced to commune with a variety of filthy powder rooms inhabited by male twenty-somethings.
You seemed to take well to the two styling irons I have loved over the years. First the steamy socialite of the bunch, GHD, who met her untimely end after a late night bender with a bottle of Paul Mitchell Gloss Drops, and more recently your jezebel of a cousin, the Conair CS19JCS. Pardon the pun, but you both share the same roots. Remember your humble beginnings at CVS? I do.
Until this evening you were always a silent supporter. The powerful, perhaps even overly-warm, wind beneath my wings, if you will. But now I am forced to lay you to rest in the second floor trash of Wesley House.
You see, in a violent act of self-mutilation that I will never fully understand, you burst into flames a mere hour ago while I was enjoying your strong and steady service. What went wrong? I know we had grown distant during the past two weeks. The warm weather beckoned and I answered it's call. There are times when a woman must be free to explore the heathen pleasures of air-dried hair. I would have always come back to you. Why couldn't you see that?
A suicide help line informs me that, "Suicide is not chosen; it happens
when pain exceeds resources for coping with pain". Am I to blame? Why couldn't you reach out to me? Didn't I give you all the thanks you deserved? I guess I'll never know.
I'm sure we'll meet again one day in that single-outlet bathroom in the sky. I'll bring the spray gel.
Love,
Drew
You were a good friend. You saw me through bleach-blonde, auburn and chocolate. Not once did you call attention to that single blue highlight that turned my hair a messy shade of green. You voiced no complaints when I woke you each morning at four to prep me during senior year of high school. You've been faithful over the past four and a half years. Never a bad blow out. Never a harsh word.
Unlike me, you were always on time. From bathroom to dorm room you had my back. You didn't complain when you were lost for a week by the lovely people of Delta Airlines or were forced to commune with a variety of filthy powder rooms inhabited by male twenty-somethings.
You seemed to take well to the two styling irons I have loved over the years. First the steamy socialite of the bunch, GHD, who met her untimely end after a late night bender with a bottle of Paul Mitchell Gloss Drops, and more recently your jezebel of a cousin, the Conair CS19JCS. Pardon the pun, but you both share the same roots. Remember your humble beginnings at CVS? I do.
Until this evening you were always a silent supporter. The powerful, perhaps even overly-warm, wind beneath my wings, if you will. But now I am forced to lay you to rest in the second floor trash of Wesley House.
You see, in a violent act of self-mutilation that I will never fully understand, you burst into flames a mere hour ago while I was enjoying your strong and steady service. What went wrong? I know we had grown distant during the past two weeks. The warm weather beckoned and I answered it's call. There are times when a woman must be free to explore the heathen pleasures of air-dried hair. I would have always come back to you. Why couldn't you see that?
A suicide help line informs me that, "Suicide is not chosen; it happens
when pain exceeds resources for coping with pain". Am I to blame? Why couldn't you reach out to me? Didn't I give you all the thanks you deserved? I guess I'll never know.
I'm sure we'll meet again one day in that single-outlet bathroom in the sky. I'll bring the spray gel.
Love,
Drew
