Part of my morning routine is drying my hair. It's getting longer, as my funtastic stylist is guiding me through a growing-out stage: we're nearly all one-length and below the chin -- longer than it's been in quite some time. But I have a lot of hair -- it's thick and while it's easy to style, it certainly has a flip on one side and not the other. Fantastic Stylist and I go back and forth about directional drying and time management, and I acknowledge that short of a lot of layers, it's not going to be a quick dry. Such are the dramas of my life.
This morning, after my dear, nearly-two-how-did-that-happen boy-child awoke early-early-early (for him at least, I'll admit it was only about 6:20), and the husband took him to daycare leaving me to get ready in peace, I set about that aforementioned part of my morning routine. And then the hair dryer cut out.
And then it quit completely -- shooting sparks from the handle that connects to the cord. Sparks. SPARKS. Causing me to cuss and jump and throw the dryer into the hallway and cuss some more. Here I go to the rest of the world -- less frantic, but still slightly frazzled and frizzied, with a bathroom smelling slightly of burnt plastic.