“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”.
So, I was thinking about John Mayer today. Not because he is the Center of the Universe – although reports from many people seem to substantiate that he does indeed believe the world revolves around him. Only because I heard his name on the car radio. Something about a musician named “Shooter” who tweetered (yes, I know that’s not a word – yet) a comment that did not extol his virtues. And I thought, “Hmm. It would be really cool to see what would happen if John Mayer was stuck in an elevator when Hurricane Sandy rocked New York. If I were writing a sitcom, who else would I plop into this potentially explosive situation ? Oh, yes. Donald Trump. And that collision of egos would probably result in a nuclear reaction that would either decimate the entire state of New York, or generate enough electricity to keep New York going for the next century.”
And then I thought, “Would even Hurricane Sandy have had enough force to blow off Donald Trump’s hair? More importantly, is there any way in the world to destroy that ghastly coif? And, if not, what would it take to convince Donald Trump to actually volunteer to shave his scalp?”
This led me to the next disturbing cogitation,”Why am I so obsessed with Donald Trump’s hair? I’m pretty sure I have blogged about it more than a couple of times now. This is not the kind of legacy I want to leave. When I die, and I finally become famous, I do not want people to look back at my blog archives and speculate about my interest in Donald Trump’s hair.”
And then I arrived at my Early Voting Location, and the line was 50 people out the door in the hot sun and there was clearly no parking available, so I just continued driving.
So, now, people will say that I was an irresponsible, non-voting citizen consumed by thoughts of Donald’s Trump’s ridiculous mop of a mane.
And Jon Stewart. Let’s make that clear. If you are looking for trends in my posts, I mention Jon Stewart a heckuva lot more than Trump.
So, allow me to spell it out for you, Future Biographer of Mrs. Cap’n Firepants: I loved Jon Stewart, hated Donald Trump’s hair, was somewhat doubtful about John Mayer as a person (but liked his music), and made a half-hearted attempt to vote even though she suspected her husband’s vote was going to cancel hers out. (The last item may change to “she braved Heck and High Water to make an ill-fated stand” if I find a way to vote on the actual Election Day.) Oh, and I never heard of this musician named “Shooter”.
See? There’s nothing to analyze here. No secrets or hidden agendas. I’m just plain ole Mrs. Cap’n Firepants, who just happens to have random thoughts about Donald Trump’s hair on a semi-regular basis.