Dear readers, it appears I did not peel enough potatoes this week (that comment will probably only make sense to anyone who caught last Sunday’s post). I have not just two chapters left in Future Memories but two chapters and a page. Yes – I have an annoying, taunting, yet totally indisputable single page still remaining in the chapter I said would have cleared out by now. And while it’s only a measly page and I’ll likely have the re-write/editing done by tomorrow, I do not have it done now. And for that, I must wear the bag of shame.
Thanks to my husband, I thankfully do not have to wear an actual bag over my head but I came close this morning. Really close. You see, I was out sick the day when all the other girls got together on the playground to hold the beauty do’s and don’ts session. That being the case, typical girly devices like eyelash curlers scare me and skills like applying blush without looking like I just got slapped has always remained a mystery. And I also apparently do not know the difference between a hair curler:
and whatever this thing is:
I’m not sure how either would even come into my possession but when I
got a wild hair decided out of the blue to curl my hair this morning, it was a contraption resembling the second image with little teeth that I happily found in the bathroom cabinet. I decided to start with the front first and wrapped a chunky portion of my poor innocent locks on it. After waiting til I figured enough time had passed, I attempted to to unroll my hair and view the masterpiece of diva curls. Except neither masterpiece nor diva anything awaited me. Now I have baby-fine hair that falls past my shoulders so maybe that’s the reason this was failed from the start but I couldn’t UNROLL the blasted thing off my head! After unplugging the demon curler and trying to dislodge my tangled squirrel’s nest from its clutches with very minimal success, I finally alerted my husband that things had gotten a little hairy (oh come on, I had to use that one).
Halfway through the rescue mission, I still held little hope of the solution being anything other than a pair of scissors and a really strange haircut. But Isaac soldiered on, patiently liberating my imprisoned tresses. When it became obvious there was no way we were ever going to make it to church, he tuned in to a program on BBN and hopped back to work. A strand here. A few more strands there. Ouch – two more strands.
An hour and a half. That’s how long it took my wonderful, sweet, sweet hubby to set me free. I daresay I will never try to curl my hair again after this experience (at least not with anything possessing little hair nabbing teeth all over it).
And the demon curler?
I threw that thing in the trash where it could never do evil again.