Woke up, yawned, punted my cat across the floor, and after some apologies, went to take a long lukewarm shower (hot water isn't doing so good right now). Getting out, I washed my face, brushed my teeth, put some goop in my hair and wrestled my contacts (well beyond their expiration date) into my eyeballs.
Plopping down on the carpeted bathroom floor, I grab up my trusty 1875 watt blow-your-head-off hairdryer and started the tedious task of turning 20 lbs of wavy hair into soft, managable straight hair.
I shut off the dryer after about three minutes of fluffing to extricate my hairbrush from Phoebe (the aforementioned unwilling furball/football) who had decided it was her new boyfriend. I wiped off the cat drool and curled it around a piece of hair. Flipping back on the dryer - I waited. Nothing happened. I flipped the switches a few more times, prayed for a miracle and then yelled some rather profane statements while I flung the appliance around the room, banged it on the counter and probably resembled swamp thing on a bad hair day.
I then spent the next 30 minutes on all fours, in front of the space heater, trying to dry my hair with convection and sheer determination.
Harry, my husband, walked in on me, in my underwear (sexy oh-la-la granny panties) and on my hands and knees swinging my head back and forth, trying to keep up with the oscilating heater. He left without saying a word.
Thirty minutes later, I was slightly dizzy, half-dry and was sporting a half-curly, half-frizzy afro.
Ten minutes later, I had stuck in some curls with a curling iron and slightly tamed the frizz. I am now at work, a little damp and wondering what could possibly happen next.
I realize that that last statement was a bad idea as the sky blackens and I am quickly reminded of Alfred Hitchcock's "The Birds".
One is pecking at the window, mocking me and my fuzzy head. More than likely he is staring at my head a la "bird's nest" and thinking of how to decorate when he moves in.