I went to the store to purchase a new curling iron the other day. I know I’m sharing pretty heady and intoxicating information about my personal life here–maybe more than you all wanted or needed to know–but hear me out.
You know what a curling iron is, right? I only ask because when I went to the aisle with the small electronic hair appliances, simple curling irons had become nearly obsolete. I’ve been using one of these technological wonders since I was a teenager. How could they just quit making them? I now know what it must feel like for my mother’s generation who can’t seem to find one of those hairdryer bonnet things to put their roller clad head under for two hours. I think it was their version of a day spa. Anyway…
There were still a couple of cheap curling iron models left for old fashioned folks like myself who obviously can’t stand change or learn to use the newest technology, but most of the aisle was filled with strange, twisted, metal contraptions that looked like torture devices that might be hanging from the wall of Osama Bin Laden’s cave dwelling.
One such device said that it was for twisting your hair to make ringlets. Since I don’t have long enough hair to twist and it sounded painful, I passed on that one.
Another said it blew hot air through holes in the metal while curling. I get hot enough just wearing socks these days. Hot air blowing through my hair is off the table.
The next device was for straightening hair. It was flat and wide and looked like the paddle my grade school principle threatened students with back when it was politically correct to administer corporeal punishment. Pass.
The last one I looked at was a narrow flat iron with ceramic grippers. I wasn’t sure why anyone would want their hair to look bent into flat sections but didn’t think that would be a look that would go well with my saggy chipmunk cheeks.
I eventually returned to stand before the same brand, same style curling iron I had purchased the last half dozen times I’ve replaced it. An elderly woman stood beside me gazing with confusion at the wall of metal electronics. “Where are the bobby pins and curlers?” she asked. I had no answer.