All Set for the Bon Jovi Concert

I would give my right arm for a bottle of hair balm today.

I stayed with Ash last night, which means that I took a shower at his place this morning. Normally, I let my hair air dry and since I shower as soon as I get up, it’s usually mostly dry by the time I leave in the morning. If it’s a particularly cold day, I may give it a quick shot with the blow dryer before I leave, just to make sure that I’m not standing at the bus stop with my hair hanging in long icicles around my face. For some reason—maybe because we slept later (though I don’t think that’s true), maybe because it was particularly humid this morning (though it didn’t seem like it), maybe because the water is heavier or wetter at Ash’s place (note to self: “heavy water” means something else)—my hair was still sopping wet fifteen minutes before we had to leave.

I hadn’t brought a hair dryer with me and lord knows Ash, being male and all, doesn’t have one. Had it not been so cold, I would have just left with really wet hair and not bothered to worry about it. Faced with this predicament, I engaged my Super Powers of Deduction, honed to a fine edge during the previous three years of rigorous legal training, and decided to lay my hair across the radiator.

The radiators in Ash’s apartment get particularly hot, which is a bit ironic, really, since his apartment is constantly cold. I was concerned about burning my face or my neck, and took care to protect them. I didn’t realize that my concern was misplaced: What I really should have been concerned about was frizz.

My hair is huge today. Ash summed it up thus: “You look like New Jersey 1989.” Everytime I walk past a reflective surface, I am seized by the urge to run to CVS and buy a tube of some hair product, any hair product, that might tame the enormous mane. And of course, I also have no hair band with me, so I can’t even sweep it up into a pony tail.