“Are you channeling Michael Jackson?” Cap’n Firepants asked me this morning.
Those of you who know me well would agree on the hilarity of that suggestion – since I am, first of all, a 44-year-old chubby white girl and, more importantly, have about as much rhythm as a washing machine on the spin cycle. The Cap’n was not hallucinating, however.
“Oh, you mean this black glove on my hand?”
“Yes, that is what I mean.”
“That is my special heat-resistant glove, designed to protect me from burning my sensitive skin while I create a masterpiece of a hairdo with my new, super-duper curling wand.”
“O.K.” He bent his head to study the remote control in his hand – or to hide his smirk of doubt.
I waved my special heat-resistant hand at him in what I assumed to be a gesture akin to telling him to “Beat It”, and prepared to give myself lovely spiral curls that would be the envy of anyone addicted to the Home Shopping Network Hair Care website.
You actually don’t have to know me well to be aware of the fact that I am hopeless at doing hair – mine or anyone else’s. This is probably why I am obsessed with Donald Trump; I secretly identify with him. I have had one successful hair triumph in the last year, and that resulted in a different kind of disaster, so I haven’t even attempted to repeat that event.
But I stupidly walked into Ulta yesterday to get some lipstick and ended up walking out with a large stick for curling my hair. Since today was Sunday, and my presence in public was not required, I decided it was the perfect day to experiment.
I would like to give you a few words of advice if you attempt to curl your own hair using a special heat-resistant glove. Firstly, it helps if you put the glove on the hand that is actually going to be making contact with the hot end of the curling wand – instead of the hand that is clutching the barrel, safely out of harm’s way.
I learned that when I did my first curl.
Hint Numero Deux: “heat-resistant” does not mean “heat-proof“. If it takes you ten minutes to wrap a tendril of hair around the wand, then you will probably start feeling the heat through the glove. And you might then drop the wand on your foot, which does not happen to be wearing a heat-resistant glove, and then you might say some words that will amuse your husband, who is surreptitiously spying on you from the bedroom as he pretends to be watching football.
And the third hint: just because it is called a curling “wand” does not mean you are suddenly a wizard at Hogwarts. Unless you are Ron Weasley trying to to wield his useless, broken wand. So, don’t point it at yourself unless you want to start vomiting slugs.
Surprisingly, I made it around my head with relatively few third-degree burns and no slug-inducing mis-spells. I examined “The Woman in the Mirror”, and I limped out into the bedroom to model for Cap’n Firepants.
“I like it,” he said.
I narrowed my eyes suspiciously, and almost asked, “Do You Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’?” But Cap’n Firepants does not tell me he likes something unless he means it. It can be devastating when we are about to go somewhere, and he says that my hair style is “not my favorite”, but at least I know his rare compliments are heartfelt.
So, now that the Cap’n thinks that I look like a “Pretty Young Thing”, I have given the heat-resistant glove and its Miraculous Wand a place of honor on our bathroom counter.
This may be the start of something “Dangerous”.
I have lost my faith in humanity. Maybe not all of it, but pretty much everyone connected to the entertainment portion.
I didn’t lose it overnight. It’s been slowly eroded over the years. It started when I was a teenager. My sister, Crash (before she had done any crashing), and I were attending a show by a world-famous magician. Before the show, as we chatted in our seats, we were approached by one of the people who apparently worked backstage. She handed a purse to my sister, and told her to raise her hand when the magician asked for a purse from a volunteer from the audience. Not knowing what to say, my sister nodded.
Now, if this had happened to me recently, I think you know what I would have done. When that magician asked for a volunteer, I would have sat on my sister’s face and raised my own hand, offering my lovely untricked-out purse to the magician.
Instead, my unassertive teenage self sat miserably in the audience through the entire show completely disenchanted as my sister enthusiastically gave up the purse that wasn’t hers to begin with for some stupid trick I don’t even remember that amazed everyone in the audience except for the two of us.
It wasn’t as though I didn’t know beforehand that there was actually no magic involved. I just didn’t want the whole nuts and bolts of the trick to be pushed into my face right before the show.
So, anyway, fast forward to today. The little faith hadn’t been worn down over the years by tales of celebrity shenanigans and political hooligans (yes, I consider politicians to be part of the entertainment group) tumbled in a giant landslide to the bottom of the canyon due to some information I received at lunch.
One of my friends, whose house is on the market, mentioned that his realtor had contacted him to see if he would be interested in allowing his house to be shown on a television show. A television show about hunting for houses. The one where they show three houses to a couple and you are supposed to guess which one they picked. During their hunt. For houses. I LOVE that show.
Here’s the kicker. Apparently, the couple for this particular episode has already chosen the house! That is so WRONG! It’s like a canned hunt! You can’t “shoot” a television show in which you are purporting that a life-changing decision is hanging in the balance when the life-changing decision was made before you even started shooting!
My friend stated that I looked like he had just told me there is no Santa Claus.
What?!!!!!! Are you friggin’ kidding me? I suppose the Elf on the Shelf is just a story, too…
O.K. I might have slightly overreacted. You would think I would have been jaded long before now by all of the junk that’s been on T.V. the past thirty years. I’m some kind of twisted Anne Frank, though, who keeps insisting that people are really good at heart. I keep forgetting that most decisions these days are made by A. Financial Corporations (who, despite recent court decisions really aren’t people) who B. have no hearts.
So, now that my friend has ruined the only “reality” show I ever watch, I should have plenty of time for blogging. There’s an up side to everything.
See, I just can’t stop channelling poor sweet Anne.
And now, if you will excuse me, I must go find
my stuffed Wonderbutt so I can pose him by the remote control I deliberately shattered he destroyed for the sake of art and comedy for my next post.